


Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity

by zoemathemata



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M, Vampires, Wordcount: Over 50.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-24
Updated: 2010-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 23:17:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 78,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoemathemata/pseuds/zoemathemata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a retelling of the gothic soap opera Dark Shadows.<br/>Vampire Castiel Collins is awakened from his tomb by down-on-his-luck author Chuck Shurley. With Chuck’s help [and blood] Castiel sets out to make a life for himself in Collinsport, restoring his old home and hopefully being reunited with the reincarnation of his former lover, Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/737666) by [Marple_Juice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marple_Juice/pseuds/Marple_Juice)



There are three things Chuck Shurley knows. One: Writing is _hard_. Two: Writing does not pay the bills. Three: If he gets caught grave robbing, he won’t last long in jail.

He really doesn’t want to end up as someone’s bitch.

Which is why he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood instead of scream out in pain as he accidentally drops his crowbar on his toes. There’s no one around to hear, but if there were, he does not want to draw attention by letting out a blood curdling scream. He absolutely cannot get caught. Not by the law, and not by the Collins family. They’ve been so good to him. To everyone. Hell, this entire town was built by them.

By them and their money.

Money, or the lack thereof, led to grave robbing.

And he feels bad about it. He really, really, _really_ does. But not bad enough to stop.

The first time, it was an accident. Total happenstance. He had been out drinking (again) trying to stave off the massive headaches and the nightmares ( _Christ, the nightmares_ ) and he was thinking about how the fuck he was going to pay his heat bill this winter because Maine gets really fucking cold. Or his electricity bill, because Maine gets really fucking dark. Or buy his groceries. Or pay his rent. Jesus, he’s so broke.

He knows he’s not a fantastic writer. He’s a _competent_ writer. A dedicated writer. No one cares more about sentence structure and verb usage than Chuck Shurley. No one.

But it doesn’t pay the bills. He hasn’t sold a story in months, and it’s not for lack of trying. He’s been writing nearly non-stop. Trouble is, no one wants to read about a centuries-old vampire’s sudden and looming return to the town he helped colonize. Chuck has been told repeatedly that the vampire market is ‘flooded’ right now. Something about teenage vampires and young high-school girls being ‘all the rage.’ Chuck Shurley’s book about a conflicted blood sucker who _doesn’t_ look seventeen and _doesn’t_ stalk the beautiful, socially stunted, high-school misfit but instead yearns for the reincarnation of his homosexual lover while trying to curb his blood lust is _’Just Not Marketable.’_

Chuck can’t help it if that’s all he dreams about. It’s been all he’s dreamt about for months. His whole life he’s written his dreams down. He sees pictures in his head and then he wakes up and sets them to paper. That’s how it’s always worked. He did pretty well for a couple of years.

Then the headaches started. Chuck would wake up from his dreams soaked in sweat, head pounding, heart thudding and instead of lying there working through his dream, like he usually did, he felt… compulsion. He tried to just lie there and process the images, weave the flashing pictures into a story. But he couldn’t. His stomach lurched, his head throbbed and he _had to get up and start writing_. It didn’t matter how he wrote it down, as long as he wrote it down immediately. He always used his computer, but one night the hard drive seized and the whole thing shut down and when he woke up the next morning… he tried to ignore the compulsion, figuring he would wait until his computer was fixed. There had been a jolt of pain in his head so sharp that he blacked out and the next thing he knew he was seated at his desk, scrawling with an HB pencil across the back of any scrap of paper he could find.

It scared the shit out of him.

After a week of waking up with migraines, he’d gone to the clinic. They couldn’t find anything wrong with him, which in itself was kind of ironic considering how twitchy he is. They prescribed painkillers for the headaches, sleeping pills for the nightmares, and meditation for his nerves.

Meditation. What the fuck?

It didn’t work. At all. And Chuck couldn’t afford to keep going back to the clinic. Not when he wasn’t getting anything published.

So that’s how he ended up stumbling home from Dean Winchester’s pub, bleary eyed and three sheets to the wind. Dean had taken his car keys and when he had turned his back to call Chuck a cab, Chuck had staggered out the door. He would use his precious cash to buy booze (and fuckit, Dean let him run a tab anyway and generally cut him off before he got too wasted or too far in the hole) but he was _not_ wasting cash on a cab. Not when he could walk. Or stumble. Or stagger. Whatever.

He took a shortcut from the pub home and was lurching through the old part of the cemetery when it started raining. He had been cold, tired, and drunk and sleeping in one of the mausoleums had seemed not-so-crazy at the time. The doors opened easily enough, and he found himself staring blearily at the name inscribed on the tomb.

 _Collins_.

Of course, nearly half the tombs in the old part said ‘Collins.’ No shocker there.

It had been a shock when he’d fallen into one of the stone caskets and the lid slid over and toppled off.

He likes to tell himself that he didn’t scream like a six-year old girl, and if he ever tells this story (on his deathbed where there is zero chance of ending up in jail and being someone’s bitch), he won’t bring it up. After all, only he and the bones know for sure.

His shrill yelp died off when he saw the moonlight glint off something shiny next to the ribcage. He’d sobered up pretty fast when he realized he was staring at a diamond necklace. It was small. Tasteful. Elegant. And suddenly it was in his hands and stuffed into his pocket.

After that, the slide to becoming part-time amateur grave robber had been pretty quick and smooth.

It was nasty work. Don’t kid yourself. Not for the squeamish. Trouble was, Chuck was ‘the squeamish.’ He dry heaved, retched, shivered, gagged, and yes, vomited. It was hard work, too. All the Collins’ tombs were stone. Heavy, solid marble and cement, only the best that money could buy for their dead. He sighed. It would be a lot easier for Chuck to hate them if the whole damn family wasn’t so fucking nice. He tried not to think of them too much as he pried open grave after grave.

So far every tomb had netted a shiny object.

Tonight he’s gonna hit the mother-lode for sure.

This tomb, this grave, was fucking _sealed_. Chuck had methodically dug through each grave in the Collins’ family third mausoleum, and after all the time spent inside, he realized that the outside was too big given the dimensions on the inside. That’s when he’d found the final grave hidden behind a false wall. No shit.

It had taken Chuck three nights to get the wall down and when he saw the immaculate marble sarcophagus, he nearly wept. Each day, Chuck imagined more and more precious objects hidden inside the tomb. There must be gold. Possibly gemstones, but certainly gold.

It’s weird, he knows. It’s _really_ weird, but he likes to know the names of dead he’s stealing from. He always says a little apology out loud, tells them a little about himself and why he’s doing what he’s doing, and then finishes off with a short prayer and how he hopes they understand.

He’s a grave robber, yes, but he’s a really, _really_ nice one.

He sweeps a layer of dust off the marble and peers down at the lettering. This one has a lot. Most just have the name, the dates, maybe a one liner, “Beloved Husband,” “Devoted Wife,” “Loving Mother,” “Rest in Peace.”

This inscription is longer. Chuck pulls his carpenter’s light over, running it across each line as he reads.

 _Castiel Collins, beloved brother,  
Taken from us by forces unnatural.  
May the Good Lord show him eternal mercy,  
And forgive that we could not._

 _“My soul finds rest in God alone:  
My salvation comes from Him.   
Psalms 62:1”_

Chuck shudders. Sure, grave robbing is creepy business, but there’s something just a little extra creepy about the inscription. Chuck traces his finger over the deeply carved ‘C’ in ‘Castiel.’

There are crosses all over the marble too, etched into the stone, and some extra ones drilled into the structure. He must have been really religious.

It’s kind of… sad. Creepy and sad. He’ll say an extra special prayer for Castiel. You know, after he’s done robbing him.

He pushes the lid of the stone sarcophagus, lifting slightly to get the lip of it free, and then shoves hard. He manages to get a corner up and perched on the edge. That’s all he needs to get the crowbar in and lever it off.

It falls to the ground with a terrible thud that echoes in the walls. He’d be worried if it was the newer part of the cemetery, by the access road. But he’s in the old part, deep in the heart of the plots, and there’s no one to hear the thud. His girlish shriek might be heard, the high pitched wail trailing out across the dark, so he’s glad he managed to get that under control, but the crash of marble on concrete doesn’t concern him.

Now that the lid is off, he’s left staring at another casket. That’s odd. Usually there’s just the stone one. It’s Maine and it’s damp.

The material of the second casket is tarnished but unmistakable, even in the low light.

 _Silver_. Ho. Lee. Shit.

He stands there slack-jawed. No. Fucking. Way.

It’s got fancy latches and handles on the side, the construction ornate but solid, obviously custom made. Must have cost a fucking fortune.

Which again brings him back to Collins’ money. They’ve always had it and likely always will. Rich. Filthy rich. In fact, the term filthy rich was probably invented just for them. A flash of envy rushes through him and for a moment he hates the Collins’ and their money.

Then he feels bad because they’re all so fucking _nice_. To everyone. Scholarships, charity dinners, parties at New Collinwood Estate, donations to schools and the local hospital. Anna Collins always has a gentle smile for him when she sees him in town. That soft, serene smile makes him want to blurt out all his misdeeds and fall at her feet sobbing and babbling about how he’s sorry, he’s so sorry he’s desecrating her ancestors’ graves. And even though Becky Collins has a slightly kooky-eyed stare and high-pitched voice, Chuck thinks he maybe, might, kind of sort of be into her. And he might even get around to asking her out someday. If he had any money to take her out.

And he’s back to grave robbing.

Right. Grave robbing. Stick to the fucking plan, Chuck.

He opens his hip flask and takes a quick hit. It burns the cut on his lip and a little blood trails down his chin. He swipes at it with the back of his hand.

He fingers open the three latches, each with a tiny inscription above them. He squints. It looks like Latin or something. He shrugs. People who have money are always looking for that extra touch, that little something to add on to everything, even coffins. The latches give a protesting creak and click loudly against the lid once he flips them up. His fingers find the edge of the lid and he manages to wiggle the tips of them inside. Turning his head slightly, he shuts one eye and squints the other, face twisted up in a prepared grimace of disgust and fear. Essentially, Chuck Shurley’s Grave Robbing Face. He lifts the lid.

Does a double take.

 _What the fuck?_

Castiel Collins’s body is not a sick mixture of bones and sunken flesh. He’s not even wrinkly and soft. He’s… Chuck tilts his head. Castiel Collins looks like he’s sleeping.

Okay, it was creepy before but now it’s _freaky_. Walled off tomb. Iron cage. Silver coffin. Un-dead looking body with hands clasped over the chest.

With a really fucking big gold and black ring on the index finger of the right hand. “Hello, beautiful.”

All intense weirdness and bizarreness is suddenly forgotten. Chuck is going to get that ring.

He reaches out to grab the hand.

The hand grabs back.

“JESUS CHRIST!”

“No. He rose from the dead. I was merely resting.”

Chuck won’t look. He won’t look at the body. The body that is _not_ fucking talking to him right now in a gravelly toned voice.

Long, slender, strong fingers are wrapped around Chuck’s wrist. Chuck can’t tear his eyes away from the grip on his bones,fingers pressed so hard he can feel his wrist bones grinding. He won’t look to the side where he sees the flash of teeth and whites of eyes. _Won’t, won’t, won’t._

It’s the final stages of alcoholic psychosis. His liver must have been failing for weeks and now the toxins have built up in his system and he’s hallucinating. Completely bat shit. Because there is no fucking way he is inside a tomb with a dead body that is _pulling his hand toward its mouth_.

“You have blood on your hand.”

And a tongue is licking the blood from his hand. _Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. If you don’t look it’s not true, it’s not true. Fucking hallucination._ He yanks his hand at the second hot flick of tongue.

Castiel Collins _jerks it back_.

Chuck won’t ever even try to deny the high pitched squeal that escapes him. In a fit of terror, he rips his hand free and spins around madly, tripping over the power cord for his light and falling to the floor.

He looks up and sees… shoes.

Sweet Jesus, no. No, no, no, no, no. That’s impossible. That man, that _body_ did not get out of that coffin.

“What is your name?”

A small whimper escapes Chuck’s lips. The body is talking. Chuck feels the same kind of compulsion from his dreams ( _Mother of God, the dreams. No. It can’t be_ ) to answer back. “Chuck.”

“What odd manner of name is that?”

“It’s short… short for Charles.” Chuck refuses to look up. All he sees are black shoes. That’s all he wants to see, all he wants to know.

“Charles. Yes, that is an acceptable name. I shall call you Charles.”

Chuck mewls. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Please don’t hurt me.”

“And you may call me Master Collins.”  



	2. Chapter 2

Castiel stands at the door and waits patiently, listening to the chimes echo throughout the house. Their slow cadence is methodical and melancholy. He sets his shoulders, content to wait.

After all, time is something he has in abundance.

Though he knows what to expect from each inhabitant of the house, his body thrums with a slight tremor of trepidation.

No, not trepidation exactly. Anticipation.

This house was never his home. He lived at the estate manor, or what they now call the Old Estate. Pulling as much information as he required for his preliminary visit to Collinwood from Charles Shurley’s mind had been no trouble, but filtering through it all, distilling it into useful snippets and understanding it had taken time.

The new estate was built after the fire that decimated his home in the 1800s. While the house appears functional enough, it is nothing compared to the glory that was the Old Estate. The fading light of day was too dark as he approached to make out any of the shingled turrets on the old house. But he knows, he remembers, that in the sunlight, far across the Collins lot and hidden by a dense set of trees, his home would stand tall and fierce, a beacon of respite.

Before the flames devoured it.

He cannot think about that now. He does not wish to think about it. Instead he forces himself to think of how the turrets look in the sunlight. He makes a promise to himself to come back tomorrow and see them.

If it is not sunny.

Sunlight is not as distant a memory as one might think. He can be out in the daylight, but it is… uncomfortable. Taxing. Direct sunlight will burn him after a prolonged period of exposure as surely as a flame. But the fading light of sunset, or the overcast light of a foggy day is tolerable, although not pleasant, physically or mentally.

The tease of sunshine, the taunt of humanity, makes his chest ache.

From Charles he also learned that the Collins family is still the wealthiest, most powerful family in Collinsport. Pamela Collins Stoddard is the head of the family, living in the new estate house with her nieces, Anna and Rebecca Collins, and Pamela’s stepson, Benjamin. Pamela’s husband, Paul, was gone. Charles didn’t know where. It seemed no one knew. Anna’s father, Roger, was the family black sheep, coming and going as he wished, never staying longer than necessary for him to recharge his bank account or lay low until his gambling debts were paid down. Rebecca’s father Joshua was slightly more reliable, but tended to flee Collinsport as soon as his latest romantic entanglement became too… entangled.

It was up to the women of the Collins family to run everything. The business, the estate, various charities and social committees. It would seem they are doing quite well, maintaining and even improving the family holdings, with the exception of the Old Estate. He learned from Charles that it lies in ruins, abandoned, falling to waste.

It saddens him to think of his home in such disrepair. He frowns. _Former_ home. He sets his shoulders.

He’s going to make it his again.

The Old Estate lacks all the modern amenities that Castiel was ignorant of before but has learned from Charles’ brain that no one lives without: electricity, central heat, indoor plumbing. Foreign words that are now becoming more and more familiar to his lips and tongue as he continues to process rudimentary information from Charles. The distillation of his prey’s knowledge and memory will continue as long he has maintains a schedule with Charles. He checks his watch.

It’s a schedule that does not leave him much time to introduce himself.

He finally hears the turning of the handle. The clicking of chambers and sliding of locks are a cacophony of interest to his sensitive hearing. When the door swings open, although he had known what to expect, he is still surprised.

 _Abigail_.

Her name is Anna now and she likely has no knowledge that she so resembles Castiel’s sister Abigail that it nearly hurts to behold her. Her red hair is loose, hanging down in waves. It is jarring for a moment, as his Abigail would never wear her hair so informally. Nor would she wear paint splattered jeans and a t-shirt or answer the door barefoot.

But, he reminds himself as he nods once politely at her gaping face, she is not his Abigail. He is a stranger. He leans slightly on his silver topped cane.

“Hello. Is Mrs. Pamela Collins Stoddard in?”

“Holy crap,” Anna blurts as she stares at him.

“Mrs. Pamela Collins Stoddard,” he repeats with his soft accent, ignoring her language. “Perhaps you would do me the courtesy to inform her that her cousin, Castiel Collins, has come to pay his respects.”

“Her cousin?”

“Yes, her cousin from England.”

“From England?” Anna repeats dumbly. “You… I mean, you look… we’ve got this picture… a portrait… and you look… I would stare at it all the time when I was little and … huh?”

So his portrait does still rest in the estate, as Charles has indicated.

“Castiel Collins. I wish to pay my respects to Mrs. Pamela Collins Stoddard.”

“Holy crap,” Anna repeats. She offers a weak smile and shakes her head. “Sorry, I just… I thought… Jesus, look at me. Won’t you come in?” She ushers him in with a mad dance of her slender fingers and delicate wrists.

“I would be delighted, thank you.”

“I’m sorry for my reaction,” Anna starts as she continues to stare unabashedly at him. “It’s just… the portrait. I mean… wow, England, you probably don’t know. We’ve got this portrait…” she leads him into the foyer and shuts the front door behind her, having to lean on it with her hip to get the solid wooden beast closed. She points to one of the paintings on the wall, further down the hall, toward the drawing room. “There. Castiel Collins.” Anna goes to stand next to it and moves her gaze band and forth from the painting to the man.

Of course it is identical. He remembers clearly having to sit for it. An ungodly amount of time with a horrid little man who was intent on getting the angle of Castiel’s brow perfect and made Castiel sit for hours.

“Ah, yes,” Castiel murmurs as he leans in and pretends to examine the portrait. “We’ve a similar one at the estate in England,” he lies smoothly. “Although Castiel is slightly older in it, and somewhat ill. I must confess, until now, I had never put much stock in the resemblance.”

“Are you serious?” she’s incredulous. “Because…” she waves her hand between him and the painting.

Castiel smiles and Anna leans toward him unconsciously, seeming to curl into his expression. “The Collins genes must be truly remarkable. We’ve a portrait of Castiel’s sister, Abigail at my home in England and you share quite a remarkable similarity to her as well.” The lie flows easily off his tongue.

“Do I?”

Castiel smiles and the shock of white teeth is mesmerizing. “Yes. It’s extraordinary.” He can’t stop himself as reaches a hand out and curls a lock of hair around his finger. She moves slightly closer. “The same hair exactly.”

Anna is nodding her head like an excited, enraptured child, bobbing it up and down.

“And you are?”

She suddenly blinks and shakes her head. “Jesus, my manners. I’m Anna, Anna Collins.”

Castiel’s eyes light up, a practiced and proficient ruse. “We must be cousins as well, then. How wonderful.”

“Yeah.”

He’s aware she can’t look away. It’s a spillover of the curse. It’s a part of it that he has limited control over, like a pheromone or the color of his hair. It happens especially when he is distracted. Most people are generally drawn to him,like moths to a flame. But when he is focused on someone, intently focused, as he is with Anna, people are pulled even closer to his aura of influence. He has no doubt that right now, if he asked, she would pleasantly and willingly bare her neck for him. He stares back at her with fondness. Warmth. Directness.

He makes a conscious effort to pull his thoughts away from her, releasing her slightly from the fierce pull of his mind and in her release she laughs nervously. The dulcet tones bring back memories of chasing Abigail through the estate when they were young. Running wildly through tall grass and dashing in and out of the forest, catching only glimpses of her red hair as it flashed through the trees. His smile widens at her laughter and she’s suddenly shy, covering her lips with her hands.

“Why don’t you come into the drawing room and I’ll get Aunt Pam?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” He pauses. “May I call you Anna?”

She blinks. “Uh, yeah, what else would you call me?”

“Miss Collins, if you would prefer.”

She giggles breathlessly at the notion that anyone would address her so formally, especially with such a serious tone as he just used. “Jesus, no. Anna’s fine.” She shows him into the drawing room. “Um, if you wanna sit, I’ll be right back?” She can’t help it. It comes out like she’s requesting his permission.

“I shall wait for you both.”

Castiel does not sit but instead turns slowly in a circle, eyes casting out over the contents of the drawing room. Although it is not his home, this building does remind him more of his life than the remainder of town has so far. While many of the furnishings have been re-covered, he recognizes the structure of them, sees them in his mind’s eye both as they are now, and as they were from before. Several of the portraits in the room are the same. There is one in particular that he was quite fond of in his previous life. The artist depicted a long ship set on rolling blue waves, a silver-white moon casting shadows across the deck of the boat, and sails billowing in night wind. He would make up ridiculous pirate stories to entertain Abigail with this portrait as inspiration. His heart lurches. The stories were for Abigail _and_ Sarah. Thoughts of Sarah cut painful strips in his chest.

“I don’t believe it.”

He turns at the voice. She is a striking woman. Gorgeous, cat shaped eyes framed by perfectly arched brows. Her voice is like whiskey, smooth and golden.

“It _is_ Castiel. Castiel Collins.” She’s eyeing him carefully. Anna is right behind her, her large doe eyes focused intently on him.

“And you must be Pamela. Cousin Pamela.”

She chuckles, low and throaty giving him an appraising look. “Kissing cousins?” she raises an eyebrow playfully.

He smiles and she is charmed. “Forgive me for calling on you without any notice. I hope you don’t think ill of me.”

“You were right, Anna, he’s the portrait come to life.”

“Except for the clothes, I hope. Or I shall have to fire my tailor.”

Pamela steps closer to Castiel and stares at him, tilting her head to one side. Castiel doesn’t look away from her feline eyes, meets her stare dead on.

“Well, you’re an old soul, aren’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?” he asks, frowning slightly.

Anna rolls her eyes. “Don’t start.” She gives Castiel a sympathetic look. “Aunt Pam is like that.”

“Like what?” he queries innocently. Pamela hasn’t looked away from him yet and Castiel gets the impression he is being measured.

“She thinks she’s psychic.” The last word is said in a stage whisper.

Pamela is unfazed. “I don’t just think, I know,” she directs the comment at Anna, while never once letting her gaze leave Castiel. His eyes flick over to Anna, as though they are playing a game and then return to Pamela. He leans in, conspiratorially.

“And what do you see, madam?”

She doesn’t blink. She is serious and solemn. “You are… out of time.”

“I should hope not. I’ve only just arrived.” He winks at Anna. She can’t help the blush that curls up her fair skin.

“No,” continues Pamela quietly not distracted by his teasing tone. “Out of step with time.”

The smile stays on his lips, but bleeds from his eyes. Like Anna before her, Pamela finds she cannot look away.

“Perhaps I am simply old fashioned.”

Pamela is slow to reply. “Perhaps.” She finally shakes her head, clearing the fog that is threatening to settle around it. “But this is no way to greet you.” She leans forward and kisses him on both cheeks. He is surprised, eyebrows darting up quickly before he catches himself and steels his face back into serene acceptance.

“Welcome to Collinwood, Castiel Collins.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, you’ll forgive me for prying, but I understood from the family history that Castiel Collins died shortly after arriving in England.”

“That is somewhat misleading,” he states easily. “He contracted a sickness, likely consumption and lingered for some time. In that time he acquired a wife and she bore him a son, who proved to be my great-great-grandfather.”

“How strange we never heard of it.”

Castiel gives her a warm smile and a soft shrug. “Not really when you consider the distances of which we are speaking. In those days, it was common to lose track of family members. Especially those separated by an ocean.”

“I suppose so,” agrees Pamela politely. “So, are all the British Collins as strapping as you?”

Castiel tilts his head in recognition of her compliment. “Unfortunately, I am the sole member English Collins’.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Are you going to be staying?” Anna blurts out.

He turns his stunning blue eyes to her and she feels her heart flutter a bit. “I don’t know as of yet. I have some business in the area, but if it’s acceptable to you, I would love to acquaint myself with my American cousins.”

“Perhaps you could stay here?” asks Anna. And although it is Pamela’s house, it is Castiel’s permission she seems to be seeking.

“Yes,” supplies Pamela easily. “We can have one of the rooms in the northern wing set up for you. Get to know you better. Becky, another one of your cousins lives here, as does my stepson Benjamin. And we expect Joshua, Becky’s father, returning anytime.”

“I thank you, but I could not possibly dream of imposing as such. I have already let a room at the Collinsport Inn.”

“Would you join us for dinner? We were just about to serve.”

“I’m afraid I have already made my dining arrangements for this evening, and I wouldn’t want to impose on you any further. I have arrived on your doorstep unannounced and you have been gracious enough to spend some time with me. I only meant to introduce myself today. Perhaps another time?”

“Of course. I’m sure the rest of the family would love to meet you. And I you can tell us about the family history from England.”

“That would be lovely.” He stood easily.

Pamela chuckled. “Oh, honey, we’re going to have to help you lose some of that formality.” She winks.

His smile is wolfish. “I look forward to it.” Castiel checks his watch. The movement is fluid and graceful. Charles should be ready for another feeding by now. “And now, if you ladies would excuse me, I must be off. I believe my dinner is waiting.”  



	3. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 3 - Chuck Shurley, Blood Donor

Chuck doesn’t look up. He can’t. He won’t. There’s no way he can face Dean Winchester anymore. Chuck wouldn’t even be at the pub except he can’t stand to be alone. Waiting.

Waiting for Castiel to call him.

To summon him.

It’s been three days since he released Castiel from his tomb and his imprisonment. Three days and nine feedings and Chuck can’t say no. He really can’t. And the worst part, the most horrible part, is when the summons comes, when he feels Castiel pulling at his brain and calling Chuck to him, Chuck doesn’t want to say no.

It’s only now, in between feedings that Chuck _feels_. Fear, disgust, terror, horror. It all comes slamming back into his body with visceral force. During the feedings it’s like being in a warm bath. Safe, soothing, with all tactile input muffled and sedate. Like the last few seconds of consciousness before you drift asleep.

He doesn’t even hear the sucking sounds that he _knows_ Castiel must make. It’s like Chuck goes to a little corner of his own mind and watches it all with curious detachment. Until it’s over.

And when it’s over, after Castiel has licked the traces of blood from his own lips and has carefully placed a bandage over Chuck’s wounds (wrist, inner elbow, clavicle, but surprisingly not the neck, _never_ the neck) for a brief moment, Chuck is frantic with need. He’s frantic for Castiel to let him stay, to let Chuck sit next to him, curl into the warmth and the strength. Chuck wants to lay at Castiel’s feet and soak up the aura that Castiel seems to generate. Castiel will look at him fondly and say something soothing. After the last feeding, he actually petted Chuck’s hair and Chuck had preened with the contact.

“You’ve been gracious, Charles. It is appreciated.”

Chuck wanted to weep at the words of praise.

But now, three hours later, sitting at Dean Winchester’s pub, Chuck is horrified. He’s sick with it. It’s all coming together in his mind, the nightmares, Castiel, Dean… and Chuck feels trapped in the maelstrom of it. Castiel is the vampire Chuck has been dreaming about, writing about. The vampire that comes to Collinsport, the conflicted vampire, the vampire that finds the reincarnation of his lover.

Who happens to be Dean Winchester.

Chuck swears to _God_ he didn’t know it was Dean Winchester. He never sees the faces of the people in his dreams and even if he had it’s not like he would have ever thought it was _real_. Jesus. He _knows_ Dean. Not like they’re friends or anything, but Chuck has been going to Dean’s pub since Chuck moved to Collinsport five years ago. Dean grew up in this town. Everyone knows Dean. When his mom died in a house fire leaving a grieving John Winchester with two little boys to raise, Collinsport stepped in to help. How could they not when everyone and their dog remembers little Dean standing on the front lawn holding his brother Sam, watching his house burn down with wide, glassy four year old eyes, knowing his mommy was inside and they couldn’t get her out?

Dean and Sam are town fixtures. In the summer, you can see Dean outside every weekend when the weather is nice washing the Impala. Dean and Sam’s house is the best house to get Halloween candy because everyone knows the Winchester boys are free and loose with the chocolate. Sam does the best job putting up Christmas lights, getting to the very top of the trees with his impossibly long arms. During the off season, when the tourists aren’t invading Collinsport like some kind of walking plague, Dean’s pub is quiet and Dean sometimes moonlights at the local garage. If at all possible, people wait until they see him there before swinging by with the weird ‘ka-thunk-a-thunk-a” their car is making. Everyone remembers how proud Dean was when Sam went off to school to become a doctor. Dean talked about him all the time. It’s pretty much common knowledge Sam will run the hospital in a few years. He’s the best doctor they have, even if he is the youngest.

Every mother and daughter has had her sights set on one of the Winchesters at one time or another. Even John Winchester wasn’t immune before he died suddenly of a heart attack four years prior. It doesn’t help that Dean flirts with anything that has legs. And Sam is too kind to not spend a moment responding to anyone who addresses him.

But strangely enough, they’re both single and that’s the way it’s been for a while. There was talk that Sam had a girl when he was in med-school, but she wasn’t interested in coming back to a small town like Collinsport, and Sam wouldn’t dream of being anywhere Dean wasn’t, not permanently. As for Dean, he flirts, he dates, but it never turns into anything serious, and he somehow manages to still be friendly with anyone he’s stepped out with. He doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. That’s true for the pub, the garage, and for his personal life as well.

So yeah, Collinsport loves Dean Winchester and Dean Winchester loves Collinsport,which is why Chuck still doesn’t want to believe it’s real. But the bandages on his wrist are real. The puncture wounds on his skin are real. The fatigue and dizziness from loss of blood are real.

The fact that Castiel Collins will pursue Dean Winchester is real.

As far as Chuck can tell, Castiel hasn’t ‘learned’ about Dean Winchester yet. Chuck’s not sure how it works, but he understands that Castiel is gaining knowledge every time he… feeds. While it’s horrifically interesting and Chuck does kind of have a morbid fascination with it, there is _no way_ he’s asking Castiel how exactly he processes information from Chuck.

Chuck also doesn’t think Castiel knows about the dreams, at least not yet. Chuck doesn’t know how he can _not_ find out about them. It’s not like Chuck has any control over what Castiel learns or what he doesn’t. And when Castiel is… drinking, in those moments, Chuck would answer any question, volunteer any information, would make any promises asked for. He’s already made some.

He’s terrified by that.

As of this moment, Castiel Collins has yet to learn from Chuck’s mind that Dean Winchester is the _exact, mirror image_ of the vampire’s former love. Chuck can’t tell Dean. Chuck can’t tell anyone _anything_. Castiel made him promise. It wasn’t some kind of girly pinky swear either. Castiel twined his hands around both of Chuck’s wrists and held Chuck’s blue eyes with his own. Chuck couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away, couldn’t blink. He didn’t want to. Castiel leaned in and said, “No one must know I am here until I tell them.”

Chuck nodded fiercely. Of course. Whatever Castiel wanted, Chuck wanted to give him. It seemed absurd in the moment that Chuck would say anything about Castiel to anyone.

“You will not tell anyone about what I am.”

“Of course not,” Chuck stammered.

“Swear a vow of fealty and obedience.”

“Uh…” Because really, how the hell did one _do that_. “I swear?” Chuck squeaked.

Castiel smiled. Chuck felt like an awkward student who had made his teacher proud.

Now, a short three hours after the last feeding, Chuck can’t believe he said those words. He can’t believe how sure he was when he said them, how certain he felt. He’s opened his mouth and shut it several times, about to tell Dean everything, but when he does… it’s like there’s a squeeze on his lungs. It’s not a painful pressure, but he can’t speak through it. Trying to avoid Dean Winchester’s concerned gaze, Chuck feels sick.

“Chuck, seriously dude, I think you need a doctor or somethin’.”

“I’m fine. I just… It’s been really stressful day.”

“You look like shit.” Dean leans in closer, his voice low so no one can hear. “Is it the money? If it is, I can call Sam. He’ll check you out, no charge.”

Chuck can’t look up at Dean, he stays hunched over the bar, cradling his pint. “You gotta stop being nice to me.”

“Are you in some kind of trouble?”

Chuck huffs dryly. “You don’t even know the half of it,” he mutters, swilling down a large gulp of ale.

“Do you need some help?”

Chuck finally looks up and catches Dean boring holes into him with his bright green eyes.

“You barely know me. Why would you help me?”

“C’mon, I know you well enough. You come in here three, four times a week. You never cause any trouble. Sure sometimes I gotta take your keys, but you never put up a fight, you just hand ‘em over. You’re some kind of writer. An artist type. Like Anna Collins. ”

Chuck shakes his head mutely and has to look away. When Castiel finds out about Dean, Chuck knows exactly where it will lead. He’s already written every word of it. Every graphic word of it.

Considering that what Chuck knows about two men being _together_ , it’s pretty well written, actually. But he can’t keep sitting here talking to Dean like he doesn’t know exactly what will transpire between Dean and Castiel. It’s wrong. It’s weird. It’s…

Well, it’s kinda hot if he’s honest with himself. In a totally non-homoerotic way, of course, because Chuck Shurley is a ladies guy. And he’s _not_ going there. At all. Even if Dean is really very attractive. As is Castiel. As is the mental image of the two of them together…

He chugs his beer and slams the empty mug down on the counter. He shakes his head again.

“I’m fine,” he stammers. “Totally fine. Just some… stuff. But it’s fine. It’ll be fine.”

He can see Dean out of the corner of his eye drumming his thumb on the marble countertop.

“Okay, then,” says Dean, although it’s clear by his tone he doesn’t believe Chuck. “You change your mind, you know where I am. And if you do wanna see a doc, I know Sam will check you out.”

“I’m good.” He sneaks a glance up and catches Dean’s eye. “Really. Just stress.”

Chuck feels it then. The pull. The slight tingle and pressure on his brain that means Castiel is calling him. He nearly knocks his stool over in his rush to stand up.

“Whoa,” says Dean coming around the bar to help Chuck.

“No, it’s fine, I’m fine,” Chuck blurts, holding his hands out in front of him. Dean picks the stool up and sets it right as Chuck fumbles in his pocket for his wallet.

“Naw, it’s cool, Chuck. On the house.”

It makes Chuck feel worse instead of better and he wants to say something. Something like ‘thank you’ but the pull on his brain is getting stronger and he has to _go_.

“You really gotta stop being so nice to me.”

He stumbles out of the pub, leaving Dean staring after him with a confused look.

“Twitchy guy.”


	4. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 4 - Old Things More Beautiful Than Things Brand New

Castiel stops in to pay his respects to the current Collins women and finds Pamela alone. He pauses to have some polite conversation, both of them enjoying a Queen Anne chair in front of the low flames in the gas fireplace.

Yes, he does believe he will be staying in Collinsport for some time.

Yes, the town is quite charming.

No, he couldn’t possibly impose on dinner tonight. But perhaps tomorrow evening, he should like to dine with them, if they would have him?

The smile he gives is warm and genuine as she exclaims she would love to have him for dinner tomorrow and does he have any favorites?

This time the smile is not so warm and not so genuine as it falls slightly when he tells her quite simply that he is sure whatever they serve will be of the utmost pleasure to him as he has only dined sparingly since arriving in town.

“I do wonder,” he continues, leaning forward in his chair and holding the gaze of Pamela, “if I may impose on your hospitality a step further?”

“Of course.” She is leaning forward as well, nearly transfixed by the intensity of his blue eyes. “Changed your mind about staying with us here, at Collinwood?”

“I’m afraid not, although I thank you again for your generosity. I am rather used to a bachelor’s lifestyle and I find I enjoy the freedom letting a room at the Inn affords.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve already found some company to keep after such a short time?” Pamela says, her eyes alight with flirtatiousness.

Castiel smiles. “Hardly,” he says with a friendly, conspiratorial tone. “I have been enjoying the somewhat less worldly things about being a bachelor, namely leaving my things about and staying up all hours of the night.”

“Night owl?”

He pauses for a moment, flicking through his mind for the colloquialism and its meaning. “Yes,” he answers easily after a fraction of time. “I prefer the evening to the day, truth be told,” at this he leans in closer, his shoulder inches from hers and she can feel the heat coming off his body. “I cannot be out in the sunlight very long.”

“Why not?”

“It is a genetic condition in the English Collins. A solar allergy. I’m afraid I would burn.”

“Well, you’re just a delicate flower, aren’t you?” Her fingers are gently splayed against her neck, resting casually against the soft, exposed skin or playing with the pendant of her necklace. He can’t help but look down. She raises an eyebrow at him.

He may be just nearly raised from the dead, but he wasn’t born yesterday and he’d have to be _all the way dead_ not to notice her flirtation.

“I would hardly call myself delicate.”

“No, there is something…” her eyes have shifted from coquettish to searching. “Something nearly feral about you.”

His smile nearly falters and just when he is about to lean back, out of her space, she continues.

“I like you, Castiel Collins,” she says with a quick wink. “Still waters run deep, don’t they?”

“Indeed they do.”

“Now,” she says leaning back her body taking on a bit more formality. “What is this imposition you’re asking about?”

“I was wondering if I may take a look around the Old Estate.”

“Got a thing for old buildings?”

He tilts his head to one side as if he is considering it and then nods once. “Yes, I suppose I do. I rather like the architecture, the dichotomy of grandeur and simplicity. Quite often I find they are more solidly built than their modern counterparts.”

“You got that right, the old house is holding up pretty good despite being abandoned for years and partially burned. As long as you’re careful with yourself, you can look around all you like.”

“Thank you. That is most gracious.” He leans back as well, settling into the chair. “No one ever thought to restore it?”

“No,” she says quickly, dusting imaginary lint off her slacks. “After the fire, no one wanted to be near it again, so they built this house,” she gestures absently at the walls of the drawing room.

“And no one since then?”

“No.” This time she pauses. “As I said, look around all you like, but be careful.”

“Is it structurally unsound?”

“That house will outlives us all,” she says lowly. “But… I think… I feel…” she purses her lips. “That house has seen its share of misery and it’s… written on those walls and soaked into the floorboards.”

“May I ask what you mean?”

She looks down at her hands. Plays with her rings on her fingers, twirling them around and around. “I told you that I have a sense of things.”

“I remember.”

“That house has memories. And they aren’t all happy.”

He believes he remembers the memories of which she warns. He forces his lips to curve up into a smile. “I shall be careful, of course.” He presses his hands into the fine wood of the chairs, standing up with grace and elegance. “If you don’t mind, I should like to have a look at it tonight.”

She stands and frowns slightly. “Are you sure? It’s dark up there. No electricity.”

“Over the years, being out of the sun, my condition has actually improved my night vision greatly.”

“I bet that comes in handy.” She places a hand on his forearm and is surprised by the iron strength under the fabric. She gives his arm a couple of playful squeezes. “I guess I don’t have to be worried about you at all. You feel strong enough to handle yourself.” A pause. “Or anyone else.” She winks again.

“You charm me.” He gives her a quick wink back. “Thank you.”

“I’ll show you out.”

“Please,” he says fondly, now taking his turn to place one of his preternaturally strong hands on her arm gently. “It would make me feel most at home if you would allow me to show myself out.”

She inclines her head in acceptance. “Tomorrow night, then. Don’t be late.” Her smile is playful and coy.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

****

Standing in front of the old house, his house, if he lets his eyes drift over slightly and doesn't look too closely, he can still see it as it used to be. He remembers running through the halls chasing Abigail, racing down the stairs in a rush to leave, sitting in the kitchen waiting for Cook to finish biscuits, hiding in the cellar as a boy, poking into the dark corners of the basement looking for treasure or bugs.

He cranes his neck and looks upward. In the dark, he can just barely make out the top turret where he had a secret hiding place for all his boyish treasures. A coin, an oddly shaped rock, a horseshoe, bits and pieces that meant something only to him.

He smiles, thinking of his boyhood self, all awkward angles and messy, thick hair, bloody knees and ripped trousers. God, how his mother had yelled at him when he tore his clothes. He lets out a huffed laugh.

He loved this house.

He loves it still.

He grasps the handle and is amazed that he still needs to wiggle it _just right_ to get the door to open. His footsteps echo loudly in the foyer. This part of the house wasn’t touched by fire. It is simply worn with time and aged by being forgotten. The walls are cracked and when he touches the banister it wobbles precariously in its posts.

He’s not alone in this house. But contrary to Pamela’s warning, it’s not something supernatural that is watching him carefully. He turns and faces his company.

“Hello.”

“Are you a ghost too?”

The boy stands in front of him and with his exceptional night vision, Castiel can make out faded and worn denim, scuffed runners and a heavy v-neck sweater.

“Do I look like a ghost?” he counters with a smile.

The boy flicks on a powerful flashlight and directs the beam up and down Castiel. The strong light fills the foyer in a glow. “Yeah. You kinda do. You look like that picture up at the house. All stiff and weird. With the cane and everything.” The boy smacks his lips in thought and then cocks his head. “So, ghost or not?”

“Not.”

The boy is wary, suspicion laced over his features.

“My name is Castiel. I am a cousin of Collins’ family. And who might you be?” He holds out his hand as an offer to greet the young man. The boy looks at the hand, looks back at Castiel’s face, and raises an eyebrow.

“I’m Ben.”

“Pamela’s son.”

“Step-son.”

Castiel inclines his head in acquiescence. “As you like. And how is it I come to meet you here?”

Ben shrugs. “Dunno. I like to hang out here. There’s tons of cool shit.”

Castiel’s amused by his gruffness. “I shall have to take your word for it,” he said looking past Ben and up the staircase. “What did you mean when you asked if I was a ghost ‘too’?”

The suspicious look sits on the boys face comfortably; it’s one he wears often. “I dunno. Nothin’.”

“Oh,” says Castiel, turning away slightly and running his hand over the banister again. He takes a few steps away from the boy in feigned disinterest.

It works because not two seconds later he hears Ben right behind him. “Why d’ya wanna know?”

Castiel fakes a casual shrug. “I heard from Pamela this house is… different.”

Ben purses his lips together and nods. “Yeah. She’s pretty cool for a step mom. She, like, _knows things_.”

“She appears to, yes.” Castiel walks along the staircase wall, running his hand along it until he finds the hidden latch with his fingertips. He presses in, and a door opens in the wall, groaning with release after so long. “Ah, look at that,” he says lowly, eyes sliding over to see Ben’s reaction.

“No way. Secret hideout. That is so freakin’ cool. How didja know it was there?”

“I didn’t,” lies Castiel easily. “I would wager this house is full of secret things.”

“Oh, yeah, there’s tons…” Ben stops abruptly, jaw snapping shut. “I mean, I guess.”

Castiel pretends not to notice the way the young boy cut his sentence off. “I lived in a house very much like this growing up. There were secret hiding places and servant stairwells and loose floorboards where you could keep your things.” He laughs as a sudden memory strikes him of playing with the dumbwaiter with Abigail and Sarah. To them it had been a new invention, the very height of modernity. “There was even a small elevator from the kitchen upstairs so the servants could move things.”

“Oh, there’s one here too!” Ben exclaims.

“Imagine that.” He’s staring at Ben, but not really seeing him. Castiel is looking backward in time to when he was a boy, not knowing what the future would bring.

“You’re not a freak are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know, a freak. A freak who likes boys. ‘Cause you’re staring at me.”

“I meant no disrespect, Benjamin.”

“Just Ben. ‘Cause if you are a freak, my brother will beat the shit out of you.”

“I wasn’t aware you had a brother.”

“He’s not my brother-brother, he’s my Big Brother.”

Castiel frowns, not sure what the distinction is. Ben sighs, overly dramatic and drawn out.

“Like Big Brother, Big Sister?” At Castiel’s continued confusion, Ben presses on with annoyance. “‘Cause my dad skipped out and I don’t have a positive male role model,” he says in that way some children have of being too old for their age. “So we hang out. Only he’s really cool and he doesn’t just hang out with me ‘cause he has to. We hang out all the time. We do tons of stuff together.”

“Of course,” replies Castiel, because Ben seems to be waiting for some kind of response.

“Last month he took me to the roller-coaster and we even got our pictures taken and put on keychains.” Ben starts digging his wallet sized keychain out of his back pocket. He keeps it with him wherever he goes and every time he sees Dean pull up in the Impala he surreptitiously checks to see if Dean still has his. And he does.

“I see,” says Castiel as Ben hands over the key chain. Castiel takes it without breaking eye contact.

“So, if you _are_ a freak, Dean will totally hand you your ass.”

 _What an odd phrase._ “I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen.” His tone is gravely serious as he indulges Ben. And then he looks down at the key chain.

It must be the angle. The picture is fuzzy, not quite in focus. Perhaps some sort of distortion. Because it can’t be possible. He cannot possibly have this chance again. First Abigail and now…

It’s too much to hope for. It’s far too important to rest small plastic artifact treasured by a young boy. He has to be sure.

“Dean, did you say?”

“Yeah, Dean Winchester.”

“He lives here? In Collinsport?”

“Duh, he’s my big brother, of course he does.”

Castiel misses young Ben rolling his eyes as he snatches the key chain out of Castiel’s frozen fingertips and shoves it back into its treasured space in his back pocket. Castiel must leave and he must leave now.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Ben. Perhaps I shall see you around the estate again.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

Castiel is already gone, already out of the old building and crossing the lush landscape. He wastes no time, summoning Charles at the same time as he makes his way back to his room at the Inn. By the time he arrives and is sliding the key in the door, Charles is already racing up the stairs to meet him.

“Charles,” Castiel says lowly as he sweeps open the door and ushers the frazzled writer in.

“I came,” Chuck wheezes out of breath. “I came as fast as I could.”

“Of course you did. Please have a seat.”

Chuck takes his place at the foot of the chair in front of the fireplace. Castiel discards his dark felt coat as Chuck shucks his light windbreaker and starts rolling up the somewhat tattered sleeve of his flannel shirt.

“That can wait, Charles,” says Castiel impatiently as he sits in the chair leans forward and directs his startling blue gaze down to the author. “First, you’re going to tell me everything there is to know about Dean Winchester.”

Chuck is already nodding in happy acquiescence before the question even finishes falling from Castiel’s lips.  



	5. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 5 - Chuck Shurley, Purveyor of All, Strange and Unusual

Charles is very detailed.

Of course it helps that Castiel is supplying questions and pushing for as much information as Charles has. Nonetheless, Charles is a wonderful observer and has much to say. Perhaps it is because he is an author of sorts, he has a keen eye for watching people, Castiel thinks.

He has only a vague idea of Charles’ life but it’s certainly useful now.

Charles sits at the foot of the chair and contentedly answers all of Castiel’s questions about Dean Winchester. What he does for a living, where he works, his history, his current situation, his family.

Charles is more than happy to supply any and all details for which Castiel asks. If Charles were a dog, his tail would be eagerly thumping against the floor. Finally, Castiel searches in Charles’ large blue eyes and is satisfied he has learned all he can from the author.

“Thank you, Charles. That is all most helpful.”

Chuck nods his head quickly. “Of course. I can find out more if you want, just tell me what you want me to know and I’ll find out.”

“No, no, that is more than enough for now. But there is something else with which I require your assistance.”

“Yes,” says Chuck easily, already agreeing to whatever it is.

“I’ve taken nearly all the blood I can from you until you’ve had time to replenish your system. I will require an alternate source of… nourishment.”

Chuck’s disappointment is visceral. “You want to drink from someone else?” He feels sick in his stomach. No matter how much he hates being a donor when he’s _not_ with Castiel, when he _is_ with him, it’s all Chuck wants in the world. He is special, he is cherished. He is valued above all others. It’s something between just the two of them.

Only now it won’t be anymore.

“You are of course my favored thrall, but I do require more than you are able to give.”

“You can have whatever you want,” Chuck protests, crestfallen.

Castiel smiles fondly. “Thank you, Charles. I appreciate your offer. But the fact remains that I must have another source.”

Chuck frowns. And then has a thought. “Does it have to be directly from… someone?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “I am not sure what you mean.”

Chuck’s tongue nervously darts out to wet his lips. “I could get you a blood supply. From the hospital.”

Castiel starts to flicker through the knowledge he has from Chuck stored in his ancient brain. Hospital, blood supply….

“Do you mean the blood bank?”

“Yes. I could get you some.” Chuck has _no idea_ how he will do this. He has no clue what he’s proposing. He only knows that if Castiel can’t drink from Chuck, he doesn’t want the vampire drinking from anyone else.

Castiel tilts his head to the side in thought. “I would be…amenable to that suggestion.” He’s never had blood that wasn’t fresh from a living, breathing donor, but he’s aware that leaving people with blank spots in their memories and teeth marks all over their body is a sure way to draw unwanted attention. “I’m not sure it will work.”

“But you can try, right?”

“Yes.”

Chuck is so relieved. “Okay. I can do that.” He affirms and only feels a slight inkling in his gut that _this is a bad idea_. But the alternative is not something he wants to think about at all. “What about tonight?”

It’s times like this it’s clearly obvious Castiel is _other_. He tips his head forward slightly and his eyes seem to glow in the dim light, bluer than is humanly possible. Clear, bright, perfectly crisp around the irises. He does not blink. He smiles and his fangs are out, razor sharp at the edges, pristine in their whiteness. They shine like polished rock.

“Tonight, you will indulge me.”

Chuck crushes himself against Castiel’s knees in blissful acceptance.

****

Charles left, his body containing slightly less blood than with which he arrived, but other than that, no worse for wear. The author stumbled out in the slightly foggy, dreamlike state that comes when Castiel feeds on someone.

From a strictly evolutionary point of view, it’s an exceptionally beneficial side effect. Keep the prey happy, keep the prey content, and the prey will return.

From a moral standpoint, it’s a little less clear. Castiel is actually looking forward to finding out if he can sustain himself on extracted and processed human blood from the blood bank. When he’s hungry, the need to eat overrides everything else. Much like his prey must feel while being fed from, Castiel is a slave to the desire when it rises. He _must_ drink. He can still eat mortal food, still drink mortal beverages, but they won’t take the hunger away. The hunger is a beast that will not be denied. It cannot be placated. It will not be reasoned with.

The beast drinks blood. It knows nothing else but the salty, coppery tang, the desire for the thick viscous liquid running down its throat.

But perhaps the beast can be tamed.

Well-fed and satiated for the night, Castiel leans back in his chair and thinks about Dean Winchester.

His first instinct was to run out immediately, find Dean and… he’s not sure what. He can’t just stride up to Dean and declare his intentions.

And he needs to be… sure. From Charles’ mind he did get a vague, fuzzy picture of Dean. Castiel is better at pulling information from Charles than he is at pulling images. Coupled with the less than ideal first portrait he saw, he needs to see Dean in person, needs to absolutely look at his face and _know_.

Also, however … idealistically romantic Castiel may be, he needs to _know_ Dean. Castiel has to speak with him, to stand next to him, to _be_ with him. For while Dean Winchester may wear the face and body of a man Castiel once loved so deeply he thought he could die when he lost him, there is no guarantee that Dean will be anything like his doppleganger.

So, Castiel is in need of a plan. And he will take the time to make one.

***

He calls Charles four hours later. He wakes the author up, but that is unimportant.

“Charles,” he begins, not waiting for the author to greet him. “I require some things.”

“Yes. What do you need?”

“I need you to purchase me a vehicle. I shall wire the funds to your account.”

He hears the beginning of a question, but he’s already moving onto the next item on his list.

“I will also require the services of an electrician, a plumber, a general contractor and a cleaning crew. Most likely several of each. They will be required to start working immediately and money is no concern.”

“Uhhh, yeah. I can do that.”

“Of course you can. I will be having dinner tomorrow night with the Collins’. You will join me.”

“Uhhh… I don’t know if…”

“It is not a request.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Dress appropriately. Have the list of personnel ready but do not mention it front of the Collins’. I will require it shortly thereafter.”

Charles is in the middle of saying something else but Castiel has already hung up the phone.

He has no doubt that Charles will do everything he is asked.  



	6. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 6 - I'm Not a Stranger, No I Am Yours

Dinner at the Collins’ went well. If Pamela or Anna thought it was odd that Castiel brought his friend Charles, they didn’t mention it. Pamela’s other niece, Rebecca, joined them for dinner and they had no fear of a lull in conversation as long as she remained with them. Rebecca had carried the conversation over most of dinner, commenting on everything from the clothes Castiel wore to his remarkable resemblance to the portrait. She peppered him with questions nearly without cessation nor mercy, wanting to know the very minutiae of his life, it seemed.

Although able to eat mortal food, he had not partaken of a meal since his resurrection and he was intrigued by the taste of the items. He had never had chicken that tasted so… bland. He rifled through Charles’ knowledge and came away learning that the animals were raised en masse, along with nearly everything else he was eating. It was no wonder that everything had a washed out, flat taste when quantity was the first order of the day. It seemed hardly anyone kept their own garden anymore, and if they wanted to purchase produce they could buy it from the large, industrial sized stores. Frozen items were intriguing to him. The very idea of being able to store large amounts of any matter of items for untold lengths of time was extraordinary.

This all filtered through his brain silently while he politely turned his head toward Rebecca and nodded occasionally as she spoke.

After dinner they enjoyed drinks in the drawing room.

“I’m sorry, Rebecca,” Castiel says lowly. “What is it that you do?”

“You’ve got to stop calling me Rebecca. Everyone calls me Becky.”

“Your name is so lovely I could not possibly surrender a syllable of it.”

She blushes and curls her lips over her teeth to hide her smile, her bright eyes darting back to him then down.

“That’s so awesome of you to say,” she exclaims. “I, uh, help Pamela out with the family business but that’s mostly just my day job. What I really want to do is write. I’m a writer.”

“Ah, much like Charles.”

Becky glances at Chuck, flushing slightly. Chuck nods his head and grimaces slightly in pretense of a smile. “Uh, I guess so,” says Becky. “I didn’t know you were a writer.”

Chuck resists the urge to glance at Castiel and make sure it’s okay if he speaks. “Um, yeah. I’ve a couple of things published. Nothing recent, though.”

“Oh, why not?” questions Becky.

Chuck takes a big swig of his brandy. _Well, the thing is, I’ve been writing my nightmares down and they all have to do with Castiel Collins, the VAMPIRE and him seducing Dean Winchester. You know Dean. The guy that EVERYONE IN TOWN LIKES?_ “Oh, you know, writing is hard,” he says nervously, foolishly. “And time consuming.”

“Actually,” interrupts Castiel, “I must say, I’m responsible for stealing much of Charles’s time as of late. I have a project that I am desperate to begin work on, and it involves you all.” He swirls his brandy in his glass as he speaks, the gesture elegant and careless. He doesn't even realize he is doing it. “I would like to purchase the old estate from you so that I may restore it.”

There is silence for a moment.

“That’s quite the project,” says Pamela.

“I believe that with Charles’ help, I am up for the task.”

Pamela looks at the other women, an informal request for their permission. While the house is in her name, she likes to make sure that Anna and Becky approve of all decisions. They both offer half shrugs.

“I can’t see why not,” begins Pamela. “We certainly have no use for it and it just sits there, empty and decaying.”

Castiel smiles, and unlike his smile of the other night, feral and sharp, this one is warm and inviting. “I am pleased you feel that way. I may move my belongings there and take up residence as soon as possible.”

“We’ll be neighbors,” squeals Becky.

“Indeed we shall.”

***

When you have money, things move quickly. And Castiel has money.

He has a lot of money.

It shouldn’t have surprised Chuck, but it did. After Castiel’s first feeding from Chuck, he had insisted the author use his tools to crack open one of the stone blocks in the wall of the mausoleum. Behind the wall rested a small wooden box containing gold coins and jewelry. Castiel didn’t say why it was there and Chuck didn’t ask. At the time, he was still too busy vacillating between believing he had gone mad and furiously begging for his life.

Chuck had been responsible for selling a few of the coins which netted quite a bit of cash. They hadn’t even had to think about selling the jewelry yet.

So when Castiel had decided he wanted to live at the Old Estate and had instructed Chuck to get a list of tradespeople who could work and work quickly, Chuck had no problem, not once he indicated that there was substantial money involved.

What _had_ surprised Chuck was when Castiel said he wanted to go over those details in person. With Chuck. Over dinner. At the Winchester Pub.

Chuck thinks he might be having an aneurysm.

He’s in a booth, in the back, as far in the back as he can get, actually. He’s sucking down water like there’s no tomorrow, eating the ice cubes with painfully loud crunches that reverberate in his ears and make it impossible to hear anything else in the pub.

The papers for sale of Castiel’s old house were finalized in the morning, less than three days after Pamela and Castiel agreed on a fair price. Castiel now owns the Old Estate and he’s eager to make it habitable. Chuck gets the impression that Castiel would move in that night if he could, but that would draw unnecessary attention and if there’s one thing Castiel is good at avoiding, it’s unnecessary attention. People in town are starting to know him now, but no one has a hint that he’s _other_. Rich, yes. Old-world, sure. Charming, hell yeah. But no one would ever suspect Castiel prefers to drink hot blood from human veins but can survive on cold, plastic-cased blood from the blood bank.

And don't even _ask_ how Chuck is getting it.

Castiel made it his mission to become a town fixture. He walks the streets in the early evening, when the sun is low and won’t burn him badly, and pauses to say hello to people who address him. He buys flowers from Millie and proclaims he has never seen such blossoms. He buys wine from Daphne at “The Vineyard” and thanks her for placing it in a double bag. He stops for coffee at the “The Bean Stop” and drinks espresso and plays chess with Frank, who honestly should be dead he’s so old, and Castiel always lets him win. He purchases _groceries_ for fuck’s sake and chats with the produce manager Eli and always has a friendly word with the tellers.

Castiel Collins is Collinsport’s newest crush.

But there’s at least one person who has not met Castiel yet, and that’s Dean Winchester.

Castiel has been very careful to steer away from him.

Chuck had the impression that Castiel wanted Dean to know _of_ him before he actually _met_ him.

He did a damn fine job of it too. Chuck doesn’t think there are many people in Collinsport that haven’t laid eyes on Castiel and every single one of them will say something nice about him. The men say he’s friendly and honest, that he says what he means and means what he says. The women say he’s charming and dreamy, with eyes that stare at you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

And in some cases, he does.

Chuck found out recently when Castiel told him offhandedly that Rebecca, or Becky as she insisted on being called, might be persuaded to have feelings for Chuck as she certainly believed they shared a kinship because they were both authors.

He plucked that tidbit right from her brain. She was a loud thinker, according to Castiel.

Chuck asked if Castiel could read everyone and Castiel had answered that he could not. Some people were louder than others, some he could not hear at all. He could hear Chuck very well because of their relationship (and if Chuck had felt a little thrill at the use of the ‘r’ word, no-one would be the wiser) but for the most part, he could hear about seventy five percent of the population, if he wished.

Although the majority of the time, he did not wish to. He said it as simple as that. As though it wasn’t mind-blowing that he could eavesdrops on people’s brains.

Chuck also thinks that Castiel has been pulling information about Dean from people’s minds, and Castiel finally has enough information that he feels ready to meet Dean.

Sometimes, after a feeding, Castiel talks to Chuck. Chuck has his own chair now, placed a foot away from Castiel’s, where he can sit and watch the vampire while he speaks. After he drinks, he’s content, relaxed, like a big, lazy cat. He tells Chuck things, random snippets of information. How when he was young, the winters were so cold that he sometimes thought he imagined the heat of summer, that he can’t believe you can get fruit all year-round now, or how his sister Sarah was much, much younger than him and so small that he could carry her on his shoulders wherever he went.

Once Castiel was in the middle of a reminiscence about riding horses and the feeling of the wind on his face, and he stopped. Chuck watched Castiel intently when he was speaking, always caught up in his magnetism, and in that moment, when he had paused, Castiel had this dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. It was a change from his normal intense expression. This look was… soft. Wistful.

Chuck _knew_ that Castiel was thinking about Dean. Or rather, who Dean had been.

Chuck realized that Castiel was _nervous_ about meeting Dean. For that brief instant, Chuck could see Castiel’s heart on his face and he was afraid of meeting Dean and having it lead to nothing. Or that Dean wouldn’t be the same as he had been in Castiel’s time.

So Castiel had put it off until tonight.

Chuck knows the moment Castiel enters the pub. There’s no dramatic opening of double doors, no flickering of lights, no gusting of wind, but Chuck nevertheless feels the room shift. He doesn’t know if he’s the only one who feels it. He would look around but he can’t. The instant Castiel walks in, silver topped cane in one hand, dark colored, knee length jacket flapping as he walks, expression somber, Chuck can’t look at anyone but him.

The compulsion to stare at Castiel and only Castiel is not sexual, but it _is_ primal. Chuck can’t look away. Chuck doesn’t want to look away. It’s a double-edged sword of duress.

The first edge is that Castiel is a wolf let loose in an enclosed house of lambs. Chuck is one of those plump, soft lambs, knowing that he’s watching a creature stronger and deadlier than him.

The second edge is Chuck’s strange devotion and fealty to Castiel. He wants to serve Castiel. He wants to please him. When Castiel is near, all Chuck can think about is making him happy.

And of course there exists the fear of making him _unhappy_. Castiel has never raised his voice to Chuck, has never indicated that he would harm Chuck in any way. He’s even careful with the amount of blood he takes and he always has kind, gentle words after feeding. Sometimes Chuck doesn’t know why he’s so afraid.

Chuck’s emotions are all tangled and snarled and he doesn’t know how to separate them out. All he knows is Castiel is here and Chuck must not lose eye contact.

Or the wolf may sneak up when he’s not looking.

“Charles. Thank you for securing us a table.”

“I thought you might like to sit in the back, so you could have some privacy.”

“That is very thoughtful of you.”

Castiel takes his seat across the table from Chuck. His presence takes up more space than is physical body. His posture is impeccable and the precision with which he removes his jacket and places his cane off to the side is eye-catching. Chuck’s eyes dart around the room and he sees more than one admiring, possibly lustful gaze directed toward Castiel. The vampire appears to take no note of it but Chuck knows nothing escapes his attention. Castiel has a leather bound notebook and a pencil for notes. He fingers the pencil, rolling it between the soft pads of his fingertips and Chuck has a realization.

“Are you nervous?”

He immediately wants to snatch the words back. He doesn’t know what made him utter them out loud. For a second, Chuck is afraid.

Castiel only tilts his head to one side and stares at Chuck while he thinks. “Yes. I believe I am.” His blue eyes move around the pub and it’s strange how he doesn’t blink as they flit from one direction to the next. “You have become somewhat of a companion to me, Charles. You alone know my true nature. I suppose my secrets are safe enough with you.”

Chuck’s nodding his head. “Yeah, of course.”

Castiel takes a moment as the waitress, Ava, arrives and takes his drink order. He turns his attention back to Chuck as she hurries off.

“I asked you to meet me here today because I simply cannot put it off any longer. You know I have a … special interest in Dean Winchester. I’ve certainly asked you enough questions about him, although you’ve never once asked me why. I suspect you know. In some strange way, I believe you already know many things that I do not.” Castiel’s eyes are bright and clear, even in the dim light of the pub and Chuck again has the thought that they are lit from within. “There is a corner, a dark corner of your brain and I cannot see past the veil that lurks there. I do not know why and I have not pressed. Our special connection grants me access to your thoughts and my nature makes it impossible to block out the majority of human minds, but I do believe that every man is entitled to have some things to himself and so I have left your dark corner to you.” He waits a moment for his words to sink in. “You know the corner of which I speak.”

Chuck nods carefully.

“It is yours and I shall not intrude. But I believe you know why I want to meet Dean, do you not?”

Chuck nods again, slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. You think he might be someone you lost.”

Castiel’s head tips in a small gesture of acquiescence and he pauses before speaking. “I had imagined in my mind’s eye all sorts of grand gestures, all manner of convoluted contrivances wherein I might stumble across the right path at the exact fortuitous moment, the very same moment as…” he drifts off and Chuck knows in that instant Castiel _is_ a little afraid of meeting Dean. “But to what end? I could machinate any circumstances I desire. It is within my power to do exactly that, and certainly I have the necessary monetary means. But if he is… changed, if he is so altered that I do not know him, nor he me, it would be for nothing. And if he has not changed, if he the same as he ever was and I have a shred of faith left in anything at all, then it must be faith in him. That he will know me, even if it is not immediately, even if it is not this day, nor the next, nor the one after that.” The pencils stops twirling. “I must have faith in Dean Winchester. So, I asked to meet here today as the first step in surrendering myself to my faith.”

“What are you gonna do if it turns out he’s not him?” Chuck’s eyes are solemn and wide.

Castiel thinks it over. “I do not know exactly. I suppose I will continue restoring the Collins Estate. Perhaps engage in a business venture. Travel.”

“By yourself?”

“The nature of a creature such as myself … I may make acquaintances and find colleagues, but true friendships and connections are not wise. I shall have to leave Collinsport in a few years before it becomes noticeable that I do not age and the less entanglements I have, the better. I do not wish to bring anyone else in Collinsport into my confidence. Other than you.”

Chuck gives a wry smile. “Is is wrong that I’m weirdly flattered?”

Castiel smiles in return. A smile full of amusement and fondness. “That you feel flattered by being in the confidence of a vampire? Yes, Charles, it is strange.”

Castiel _is making a joke_. The very thought of it is so unexpected and odd that Chuck laughs more at the thought of the vampire being funny than at his actual words.

Ava returns with their drinks and seeing Castiel wrap his long fingers around a beer bottle is strange and jarring. Chuck has never seen him drink anything other than blood and frankly he expected Castiel to order red wine, like fictional vampires everywhere.

“You guys ready to order?” asks Ava, her attention solely focused on Castiel.

“I will have whatever Charles is having,” replies Castiel easily. He has no preferences for food yet and a lot of things are still quite foreign to him.

Chuck feels a strange surge of importance. “I’ll… I mean, we’ll have the clubhouse sandwich on white with fries.”

****

Ava nods and tosses a dazzling smile at Castiel, which goes mostly unnoticed. She trots back to the bar to punch in their orders, which is where Dean finds her, chatting with one of the other wait staff, Andy, when he comes up from the basement.

“He’s totally dreamy, right? He’s got that whatchamacallit, old world charm,” Ava says.

“I’ve seen him around. Seems like an okay guy,” replies Andy.

It’s a small pub and Dean’s friendly with his staff so Andy and Ava don’t stop chatting as Dean goes behind the bar and checks the pressure on the soda pumps.

“I had no idea he and Chuck knew each other,” Andy continues.

“I know right? But they’ve got their heads together on something.”

At the mention of Chuck’s name, Dean’s head perks up. He hasn’t seen the poor guy around for a while and he’s been wondering how he’s doing.

“Hey, Chuck’s here?” he asks.

Ava turns to him and jerks her head in the direction of the booth. “Yeah, and he’s here with Castiel Collins.”

“Who?”

Ava rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Honestly, you should be the hub for all the gossip in this town, it all goes through the pub, but you couldn’t care less, could ya? Castiel Collins? He’s a cousin of the Collins family from England.”

“Hey, I heard he just bought the old house,” interjects Andy.

“No way!” exclaims Ava.

“Way. I guess he’s planning on fixing it up or something.”

But Dean has stopped listening. He’s looking over at the booth where Chuck is sitting and although the author still looks pale and drawn, he seems… better, more relaxed than the last time he was in. Satisfied that all the CO2 canisters are hooked up correctly (and under the right names this time), Dean wipes his hand on a bar towel, not managing to get all the sticky soda pop syrup off, slings the towel over his shoulder, and heads over to Chuck’s booth.

Chuck’s listening carefully to Castiel and doesn’t see Dean approach until he’s right at the table.

“Hey Chuck, haven’t seen you around. How you been?”

“Dean,” breathes Chuck and his eyes go from Dean to Castiel and back to Dean.

Castiel has gone very still.

Chuck sputters. “I’m good, man. I’ve been good. Um, Dean, have you met Castiel Collins?”

Dean finally turns his attention to Chuck’s companion. Truth be told, he hasn’t heard of Castiel. He might have heard people in town chatting about him or maybe not. He doesn’t put much stock in chit-chat and it tends to roll over him like water off a duck’s back.

Castiel’s blue eyes focus on Dean and Dean feels a little shock go through him at the intensity of the gaze. He wants to say something, wants to give him a careless grin, the one that makes him a natural at owning a social establishment, but he’s startled by the clarity of Castiel’s eyes. Castiel looks up at Dean patiently, as though he has all the time in the world for Dean to stop being an idiot and say something. Dean’s vaguely aware of Chuck giving his name to Castiel and telling him that Dean owns the pub.

Castiel is holding his hand out waiting for Dean to grab it. Dean blinks twice at it before he reaches out and clasps it.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Charles speaks warmly of you.”

His voice is low and somewhat rough, like he just woke up and that coupled with his bed-head hair puts a dirty thought in Dean’s mind immediately and he almost _blushes_ for god’s sake.

Dean realizes he’s just been nodding his head, up and down, up and down, without uttering a single word.

And he’s still holding Castiel’s hand.

He doesn’t really want to pull away. Castiel’s fingers are slender but strong. His skin is slightly rough, as though he has worked his whole life. He holds Dean’s hand firmly, but not like he’s trying to win a contest or anything.

Dean’s a master at sizing someone up through their handshake.

Castiel’s hand is neither hot nor cold. But slightly…

Sticky?

“Oh shit!” Dean exclaims as he pulls his hand back to grab at the towel in his shoulder. “I just got Coke syrup on you. Sorry, man.”

Castiel turns his hand this way and that, and tilts his head quizzically. Dean wraps the towel around Castiel’s fingers and trying to wipe off the sticky residue.

“It is of no consequence,” murmurs Castiel quietly. He is intently focused on where Dean has caught his hand securely and is folding it in terry-cloth. Dean’s hands still and Castiel looks up to catch Dean staring at him.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles again and wants to cringe at his lame tone.

“Please do not trouble yourself.” Castiel wraps his other hand over Dean’s, clasping it between his own.

They stare at each other, neither blinking nor moving. Although he’s no expert on social niceties, Dean knows that the socially acceptable timeframe for him to have his hand held by someone else, especially another man, has _long_ come and gone but he doesn’t feel quite ready to pull away. Which should make him feel awkward or embarrassed but it doesn’t, and it seems like Castiel doesn’t mind either.

With a soft, parting squeeze, Castiel releases Dean’s hand and leans back slightly.

“This is a very nice establishment you have.”

His brain stalls for a second. “Uh, thanks.” Dean swears he hears an audible clink as his mind gets back in gear. “I hear you bought the old Collins place.”

“Yes. I hope to restore it. I believe I met your young charge, Ben, there.”

“Oh, yeah? He didn’t give you any trouble did he? Ben’s a great kid but he’s got a mouth on him.”

“On the contrary, I found him quite charming. He mentioned that he likes to roam around the old estate.”

“I can talk to him about that, now that you’ve bought the place.”

“I certainly don’t mind if he wishes to ramble about. Please let him know that as long as he is careful, it is no trouble to me. I shall alert the working staff to be on the lookout for him as well. Boys of that age need a place to wander about and if he is at the old estate, then he won’t have to find a new, unknown location.”

“Thanks.”

“Do not mention it. Perhaps Charles and I can even find a small task for him to ensure he stays out of the more dangerous work we have to do.” Castiel inclines his head toward Chuck.

Dean’s completely forgotten that Chuck is there and he whips his head around, almost startled to find that Chuck hasn’t moved. He’s calmly drinking his water, crunching on the ice.

“Sure.” Chuck nods in agreement.

He should just say ‘thanks’ again and then make an exit, Dean thinks. He shouldn’t just stand there saying nothing, but he doesn’t want to leave. Which is ridiculous. He has work to do and while he always takes time to chat with customers, he doesn’t make a habit of hovering at their tables. He should say something, anything.

“Well, maybe I’ll come by and see how things are going.”

Oh God did he just invite himself over? To the Collins Estate? He’s pretty sure that Sam would bitch slap him if he heard that.

If anything, Castiel seems pleased and he smiles. “You are welcome anytime you wish.”

Dean automatically smiles back. “Okay.” And if his word comes out a little breathlessly there’s no one but Chuck and Castiel to hear it. “Okay,” he repeats. “I should, uh… I’ve work to do.”

“Of course. We do not wish to keep you. I look forward to your visit.”

“Yeah, me too. I mean, uh… Yeah. Okay. Bye.”

Castiel forces himself to not watch him walk away across the small pub, but instead turns back to Charles.

Chuck is grinning at him. He hitches forward in his seat and leans over the table.

“That went well. I thought it went well. Did you think it went well?” Chuck’s voice is quiet so as not to carry but it is laced through with excitement.

Castiel looks down at his small notebook, almost shyly and absently begins to twirl his pencil again.

“Yes, I think it went well.”


	7. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 7 - The Collision of Our Kiss

Dean is dreaming.

It’s not like his normal dreams, which are generally full of random images and wacky pairings from his everyday life. The kind of dreams where he goes to the pub and finds out he ordered a bucked of striped paint and Ava thinks it’s the wrong color. _I told you blue and red are not going to go with the leather on the bar stools. I don’t know what you were thinking, silly. I told you to get yellow and purple._ Or the one dream he always has where he’s trying to call Sam and then numbers on his phone keep shifting and changing and so he has to keep hanging up and start dialing again from the beginning.

He also has this one freakishly annoying dream where he is chewing gum and he wants to spit it out but no matter how hard he tries he can’t and the gum just keeps getting stickier and sticker until it’s taking up his whole mouth.

He mentioned it off-handedly to Sam once and he said it was some kind of stress dream. What-the-fuck-ever. A stress dream is when you ordered four times the amount of meat you’re gonna need and you can’t send it back and now it’s gonna go bad and you’re gonna be out of pocket that money and _still_ have to figure out what you’re gonna do with all that meat.

 _That’s_ a stress dream. That other one is just about gum.

Tonight’s dream isn’t like that, but it’s not a nightmare either, although he does have those regularly. Dreams of yellow and orange flames snaking forward and licking at his toes, and he’s holding Sammy and Sammy is so heavy, so heavy and he can’t make his legs run fast enough and when he looks down he sees his feet sinking into carpet and he’s drowning into the floor and he’s holding onto Sammy so tight _so tight_ that he hears something snap and he looks down and Sammy’s all black and burned up; dry like old wood, and his mouth is open screaming but no sound is coming out.

He doesn’t tell anyone about those. Not even Sam. It’s not like it takes a genius to figure out what those nightmares are about.

Thankfully, tonight is not a nightmare kind of night. Tonight’s dream is different from any other kind he’s had. Colors stand out more and it’s so _tactile_. He thinks he might recognize the area. Almost. It’s like the landmarks are the same but he doesn’t see anything else that he would know. He’s in a forest, huge trees bowing up and over the pathway he’s on, creating a peaceful tunnel of greenery. The wind rustles the trees and the sound of all the branches and leaves rubbing against one another is soothing and refreshing.

He’s running.

It’s not the frantic running of a dream where you’re being chased or you’re lost or scared and trying to find something. It’s the pleasant happy running of chasing something you want to catch. Up ahead, fragmented by trees and leaves and shadows, he can see a figure sprinting away from him and he wants to catch it. He feels light, giddy and almost out of breath. The wind is cool and soft on his skin, the ground is somewhat marshy and springy under his feet. In the distance he can hear the waves crashing against the rocks and he knows he must be close to the shoreline. He can taste the ocean spray on his lips, salty and tangy; the special taste of brine that he knows so well and immediately associates with home.

He’s running faster, determined, and he has a strange feeling of vertigo from moving through the trees, all so similar but so different. The figure ahead is slowing down, wanting to be caught. Dean reaches his hand out and feels his hand land on a solid shoulder and slightly scratchy fabric and then legs are tangling and arms are splaying and he’s falling, falling, _they_ are falling, falling and it’s not scary; it’s thrill, anticipation, desire and _fun_ all rolled into one big happy ball of emotion that crushes into his chest and squeezes out everything that was ever weighing his heart down.

There is grass under his head and mud all over his clothes and he doesn’t care. He can feel his smile so big and huge that it’s threatening to crack his cheeks. There’s a satisfying weight on top of him and he’s breathless from running and from _catching_. His eyes trail over a slightly stubbly jaw, fingers following where his gaze rests and finally he’s looking up into blue. The blue is looking back and the color is everything that makes him think _happy_.

“Caught you,” he breathes low and quiet.

“I wanted to be caught.”

“How lucky for me.”

His fingers slide through dark hair and _pull_ gently, coaxing lips to meet his. They are only a millimeter apart, sensitive pink skin nearly touching and there is a pause. Breaths mingling, eyes closing, and the moment, _this moment_ … he wants it to be carved into his grey matter, stamped into his heart and preserved for eternity. He hears the wind and the surf, he feels the cool breeze moist with just a hint a ocean spray. The solidity of bone, flesh and muscle weighing on top of him is warm and strong.

Lips meet, gliding over one another in a restless dance. Tongues darting out in quick teases and playful licks and then tangling in a hot slippery slide, fighting for more and yes and _please_. He moans and hears an answering one, resonating fantastically in his ear and sending thrills down his spine to curl contentedly in his groin and if this moment never ends he will be perfectly happy. If he dies right now, he will be satisfied.

If he dies…

If he dies…

If he dies…

The wind turns mean, angry and cold. The sky goes dark and he’s alone and he doesn’t know how it happened. He’s on his feet and he’s running again but this time it’s frantic and he’s scared. He had something (someone) and he lost it (him) and he needs it (him) back, he _needs_. The trees are discarding leaves, throwing them down at him spitefully with little branches still attached and they sting his face. It’s raining, cold, hard, brittle rain that cuts through his skin and chills him in seconds. He’s lost and the path is gone and the trees are curling in on him, crowding and crushing, and it’s cold. It hurts. He’s screaming.

He wakes with one word on his mind.

 _Castiel._

***

He waits for Castiel to come back to the pub.

He waits three days. Castiel doesn’t return.

Which is fine. It’s normal. He has regulars and he has not-so-regulars. People come and go as they please and he can’t say he’s ever really given it any thought until now.

On the fourth day, he has plans with Ben to play some road hockey. They meet regularly with a bunch of Big Brothers and Sisters and their charges and organize a pickup game. They careen around the empty half of the community hall parking lot, the grownups carefully watching to make sure no one skates outside of the pylon barrier they’ve erected. Dean’s not bad on his inline skates but if Ben wasn’t such a great kid it would be really annoying how he’s able to dart in and out of traffic, always faster than the other kids, certainly faster than most of the adults. Ben has never even needed the wrist guards Dean makes him wear, while Dean’s are scuffed up beyond all hope.

The game winds down, sweaty kids stowing their gear and Dean says a silent prayer no one forgets to toss their stuff in the wash. Dean and Ben are hunkered down on a cement parking divider, shucking their skates and yanking off their gear. They didn’t have much chance to talk before the game, but Ben’s all chatter now. All “did you see that shot? Jordy’s got new skates but they suck. April’s got a new game and it’s so sweet, you can pick your player and trick them out and then send them into battle. She’s gonna let me play it next week but I gotta bring my own controller ‘cause her other one got chewed up by her Rottie.”

Dean smirks. April. He’s been hearing a lot about April lately, but he hasn’t pushed, doesn’t want to pry. But if he’s not mistaken, April is kind of Ben’s girlfriend.

Girlfriend in the “Grade Three” sense of the word, which as far as Dean can tell, means that all of Ben and April’s friends know that Ben and April are boyfriend-girlfriend, but Ben and April don’t eat lunch together, don’t talk at school and most certainly _do not_ stand next to each other in line.

But they do talk on the internet and play Pokemon together. Dean can tell you all you want to know about Pokemon.

“… and the staircase is fixed now and Mr. Collins and Chuck said I could go upstairs as long as I stayed out of any rooms that had a yellow x on the door because that means that they need work. Mr. Collins asked me to organize the tile spacers and make sure they are all in the right place at the end of the day. He said he’ll let me help pick out the paint too. I told him blue is nice. He said ‘blue is a very nice color indeed’. He talks funny. They’re doin’ his bedroom first. He’s gonna move in tomorrow.”

Dean’s interest is piqued against his will. “Yeah, he stopped by the pub. He mentioned you hang out up there at the Old Estate.”

“He said I could,” Ben immediately defends.

“And that’s what he told me,” Dean says with a nod and Ben immediately relaxes. “So, it’s, uh, been pretty busy up there?”

“Oh yeah, they got tons of stuff done. There’s people all around doin’ stuff.”

“And Mr. Collins is usually around?” Dean asks and then feels the need to clarify. “You know to make sure you’re doing okay?”

Ben nods vigorously as he stuffs his feet into his shoes. “Yup. ‘Cept when it’s really sunny he has to stay in the house. He’s allergic.”

“To the sun?”

“Yep.”

Dean didn’t even know that was possible.

“You should go see it.”

“See what?”

Ben rolls his eyes dramatically. “The old estate. It’s awesome. There’s secret rooms and hallways and they even have a stupid waiter.”

“Dumb-waiter.”

“That’s what I said.”

“So, Mr. Collins is moving in tomorrow, huh?”

Ben looks at him like he’s an idiot. His eight-year old face clearly says _what did I just tell you_?

“Maybe I will stop by.”

***

They have gotten a lot done in three days. Dean didn’t think it was possible to get that much done, but he’s standing in front of the Old Estate and seeing the proof.

The outside stucco has been cleared of debris and Dean’s not sure if they painted it or just washed it but it looks good, clean and new. There are workmen and women bustling about with paint cans, tools and materials. Off to one side, under a small canopy is Chuck. He’s standing in front of a slanted table, holding a clip board. He’s talking to a slender woman in a hard hat and a safety vest. Chuck looks up and sees Dean. He doesn’t look surprised and just motions him over with a wave as he continues to chat.

Dean waits, hands shoved into jean pockets until the woman leaves and Chuck turns to him.

“I have no idea what to call her. Foreman? Forewoman? Foreperson? Is there a PC term for it?”

Dean shrugs. “You’re asking me?”

Chuck flashes a smile. “So, uh, what brings you out?”

“I heard you guys were making real progress out here.”

“Oh, yeah? From Ben?”

Dean nods. “Yeah. Thanks, you know. He says you guys have been including him and looking out for him.”

“He’s a good kid. A little weird sometimes.”

“Weird? Why weird?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. He’s at that age, you know?”

Dean smirks knowingly. “Is this about April?”

“April? No, Sarah.”

“Sarah? Who is Sarah?”

Chuck clears his throat nervously. “Uh, I think she’s his imaginary friend.”

“What?” Dean has not heard anything about a Sarah and certainly not about an imaginary friend. Ben has lots of real friends. He’s not one of those kids that has imaginary ones.

“Yeah, he says that she lives around here, and they hang out. Have been for months.”

Dean’s nodding like he gets it and then he suddenly realizes that nope, he doesn’t. “Seriously?”

“Yep. Sometimes if he doesn't know you’re there, you can catch him talking or listening to her. He doesn’t like to talk about it though. I think he only told Castiel because he’s got a way about him. You know?”

Boy does Dean know. “He told Castiel?”

“Yeah, I think he likes talking to Castiel because Castiel talks to him like he’s a grown up.”

Dean nods again absently. He supposes there’s nothing wrong with Ben having an imaginary friend. And the kid seems pretty well adjusted otherwise. But it’s definitely something he wants to keep an eye on. Maybe he’ll plan a fishing trip for the two of them and they can just hang out on the boat, drink some sodas, shoot the breeze.

“Thanks, man,” he says to Chuck.

“Yeah. No problem.” Chuck taps his pen on the clipboard. “Um. He’s inside.”

“Ben?”

“Castiel.”

“Oh, I didn’t… I, uh, I just thought I’d…”

Chuck ignores his lame protestations like he doesn’t hear them. “I think he’s on the second floor. He’s moving in today.” Chuck turns around and starts walking away. “You can go on in if you like,” he calls over his shoulder.

And that’s kind of weird.

His thought is immediately forgotten as he walks through the open double doors at the front of the house and sees the work that has been completed. The staircase has been magnificently restored, curving upward with ribbons of dark brown railings and spindles. The walls are freshly plastered and the normally damp air is even heavier with the moisture that seeps out of them as they dry. The stairs are well constructed, silent under his feet. There is a large chandelier hanging down in the center of the foyer and the light it gives bounces so brightly off the railing that Dean’s afraid to rest his hand on in case it’s still wet. There are workers inside the house and the sounds of a radio coming from the other end of the building. All of the clatter of hammers and nails, drills and screws, paint-rollers and ladders gets farther away and muffled as he rises up the stairs.

It doesn’t occur to him until he is almost at the door to Castiel’s bedroom that he never asked Chuck which room it was. He just climbed the stairs and knew.

He knows it’s the right room.

It also didn’t occur to him how supremely strange it is of him to just let himself in on Chuck’s say-so and come find Castiel in his bedroom, for god’s sake.

He’s a stalker.

This is awkward.

The door is open and he knows he shouldn’t, but he peaks around the edge.

He’s surprised to see Ben, sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor with a fan of paint chips spread out around him. He is studiously regarding each one and Dean’s only seen this kind of focus for Nintendo. Dean hears the shuffle of fabric and if he shifts slightly, he can see Castiel arranging clothes on plastic hangers.

“Have you narrowed down the choices?” Castiel comes out of the large closet and sits cross-legged across from Ben. Castiel is in jeans and a grey t-shirt and it’s a surprising look on him.

Ben sticks his tongue out from in between his lips. “I think so.” He jerks his head to the discard pile. “Those ones won’t be good ‘cause they’re girly. I mean they’re blue, but they have girly names like ‘Robin’s Egg’ and ‘Sky Ballet.’”

“That will not do at all.” Castiel’s tone is grave.

“Sure won’t.” Ben nods sagely. “So I’ve got these three.” He spreads the chips out on the floor between them. “That one’s got a cool name and it’s a nice blue. It’s like the sky. That one,” he points to the second one. “is okay but it’s dark, and the last one has the best name and looks good. It’s Caribbean Sea, like the pirates movie.”

Dean smirks. It’s so obvious that Ben’s favorite is the last one and he can tell that Ben really wants Castiel to pick it.

“These are very good choices indeed.” Castiel rests his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers under his chin. “Which one would you chose, if it were your room?”

“I’d totally pick the pirate one. For sure.”

“I see,” says Castiel thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should let Dean weigh in as well.” He looks up and his eyes instantaneously find Dean’s green ones peaking through the gap in the doorway. Dean should be embarrassed, he should be really fucking embarrassed; not only is he a stalker he’s a _creepy peaking_ stalker, but Castiel’s expression is so amused and fond that Dean can only smile and push the door open.

“Dean!” Ben exclaims. “You came! It’s so cool, right? It’s looking real good. And Castiel said I could pick out the paint color for the bedroom. After we pick this one, we’re gonna go down the hall to all the rooms that are ready for painting and pick. A different color for each room, isn’t that awesome? I think there should be a red room and a green room and a yellow room, but not orange ‘cause no one likes orange.”

Ben’s up on his feet and pushing the three paint chips into his hand. “You gotta pick one of these. All the others got trashed ‘cause they’re no good.”

Dean scrutinizes the samples with an overly serious face, showing Ben he means business. “Well, buddy, I like the pirate one too, but it should probably be Castiel’s choice.” Dean glances over to Castiel who is unfolding himself gracefully from his cross-legged position and standing.

“It seems it is unanimous then, Ben. Why don’t you give that one to Charles and tell him it’s the master bedroom color.”

“So cool. Uh, what about the tv and games?”

“I still see no necessity for a television in my sleeping chambers and I’ve managed to live this long without… what did you call it? Mario Kart?”

Ben looks totally baffled. To an eight-year old the idea that _anyone_ who had the choice would choice _not_ to put a tv with a video game system in their bedroom is unfathomable.

“But I shall have one put in downstairs for when you visit.”

“Cool.” He scampers off, paint-chip getting slightly crushed in his sweaty little hand.

And that leaves Dean. Standing in Castiel’s bedroom. Like the creepy peaking stalker he is.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets just to put them somewhere and rocks slightly on his feet.

“Do you even know what Mario Kart is?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. Although, young Ben says it’s imperative that I have one.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he told you that you can’t live without it.”

Castiel smiles. “Something like that, yes.”

You got a lot done in a really short time,” and Jesus he sounds like an idiot.

Castiel either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind. “Yes, it’s coming along wonderfully.”

“Ben says you’re moving in? Today?”

“That is my intention.”

“Is the place livable? I mean you have water, heat, light?”

“The master bath has water and the kitchen does as well, although I’m not much of a cook. The central heat won’t be operational for a fortnight, but until then, I shall have a fire if I am cold.” Castiel directs his gaze quickly to the fireplace.

“Wow, I guess this place wasn’t set up for heating.”

“No,” replies Castiel with another smile. “It wasn’t built with central heating, water nor electricity in mind. I don’t mind. It is very similar to how I grew up.”

“Jolly old England?”

“Just so,” Castiel murmurs. “The house I grew up in was very similar to this one, and we didn’t have central heating either.” Castiel isn’t really looking at Dean at the moment, he’s looking around the room and Dean gets the impression that he’s seeing something very different. “At night we would take hot bricks into bed with us to keep us warm.” He stops, clearly thinking and then seems to shake his head a little. “But, that was a long time ago. Shall I give you the grand tour?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’d be great.”

“I thought perhaps you would tell me it would be ‘cool.’ Young Ben is particularly fond of that word and uses to describe nearly everything in Collinwood.”

Dean laughs and then falls into step beside Castiel. Castiel takes him back down to the main floor and points out the drawing room, the solarium, the den and then kitchen. Castiel has a short, kind word to say to each person they pass, although he doesn’t stop and linger with anyone.

The kitchen gives way to a massive dining hall and Dean can’t even imagine where Castiel is going to find a table that will take up the space provided. Collinwood is massive. Dean always knew it was big, but he never appreciated how big. He’s been over to the new house many times picking Ben up and dropping him off, and he thought the new estate was large but now that he’s seen the inside of the old estate, he realizes the new house is just a small dwarf sibling.

There’s a ballroom for god’s sake. An honest to god ballroom.

The light in the house is dim and Castiel explains that while the electricity is completed upstairs, the main floor requires extra circuitry and breakers to handle the large load required for the ballroom and the kitchen appliances. It won’t be finished until next week. There are many windows, but they all have dark glass that filters out the majority of the light. It must be due to his allergy and Dean wants to ask but he figures he’s pushed his luck enough by showing up and stalking the guy in the first place.

They are standing in the center of the ballroom and Dean is trying not to be intimidated by the way his footsteps echo around the room. With no furniture, no drapery, no _anything_ there is nothing to absorb the sound of his boots as they track across the floor. It’s unfinished, half lain hardwood in a deep chocolate grain. When it’s done, it’s going to look amazing.

“I’m unsure what to do with this room. It’s unnecessary to have such a large room.”

“You could just throw a really big party and when it’s done, put in a bowling alley.”

Castiel laughs at that and the sound echoes all around Dean coming back at him from different angles and it makes a smile break out on his face. “And if I am unable to sleep I may just come down here and bowl a few lanes?”

Dean shrugs. “If you’ve got nothing else to do when you can’t sleep.”

Dean can think of a few things he’d like to do with Castiel if he can’t sleep and for a second, he feels really awkward again until he realizes that Castiel is staring back at him with much the same look on his face. Even in the darkened light of the room, his eyes are a startling blue.

“Perhaps I shall take your advice and the next time I can’t sleep I will invite you over for a game.” His voice is low, gravelly.

“I’m very good at games.” Dean’s matching his tone and his look.

“I imagine you are.”

They stand there for a minute simply looking at each other. Dean’s disappointed when Castiel finally looks away and offers to show him the rest of the rooms upstairs.

There are several bedrooms upstairs and while many are being turned into guest rooms (although how many guests can you really expect at one time?) Castiel also has plans to knock down the walls between some of them and merge them into larger rooms. Dean wonders what one person will do with all the space. It’s jaw-dropping. If it were him, he would just move from room to room, rotating through the house and never getting bored. They are at one of the last rooms and Castiel has the door pushed open wide but they haven’t gone in. Dean saw the yellow ‘x’ painted on the door, the sign that tells Ben to stay out of a room because it’s unsafe.

“This room was destroyed significantly during a fire many years ago. The fire started downstairs but the heat warped and damaged most of the floor joists so it will have to be completely torn out and re-done. I’m rather fond of this room, however so I’m quite anxious for it to be completed.”

“Yeah? How come?”

“My room growing up was very similar to this one. A replica actually. And although I’ve taken the master suite here, I have a special desire to see this room completed. There is actually a small door in the closet and a cramped passageway and spiral staircase lead down to the kitchen. As a small boy, I used to sneak downstairs very early in the morning, when Cook was baking, and steal biscuits from his tray. I daresay he knew exactly who was stealing his freshly baked treasures but he never said a word and in fact always left them in easy reach of the door that led out of the passageway.”

As Castiel talked, he had wandered a couple of steps into the room and unconsciously, Dean had followed him. Castiel’s voice was soothing and hypnotic and Dean had the stray thought that he could probably listen to the man read the phone book and enjoy it.

Dean turns in a slow circle surveying the smaller room. He can see how it would be perfect for a boy and how having a secret passageway would be just about the best thing ever for any child. A place to hide your secrets.

The cracking sound he hears is so unfamiliar to him that he doesn’t register it as the floorboard failing until he starts to pinwheel his arms madly as his balance shifts and he is falling (falling, falling) backward. He barely has time to think, _Oh shit_ before one of his wrists is caught in a harsh grip, bones grinding and he’s unceremoniously yanked _hard_ into Castiel and then they’re out in the hallway. It happens so fast, he’s not sure how they ended up outside the room.

He’s pressed flush up against Castiel and one of them should step away, one of them should move a fraction. They should be exchanging awkward looks and nervous laughs at the absurdity of their situation, but neither moves. Dean’s eyes dart quickly down to Castiel’s lips and then back up again. Castiel’s eyes have taken their own wandering trip to gaze at Dean’s features.

“Caught you,” Castiel says finally, low and quiet.

Dean flashes to his dream from other night and without pausing answers, “I wanted to be caught.”

The look on Castiel’s face is painfully happy. Like he can’t believe Dean said those words. “How lucky for me,” Castiel replies, the words barely audible.

Dean’s not sure if one of them moved first or it was both of them at the same time and frankly he does _not care_. His lips are crushed by Castiel’s and they’re locked in this ungraceful, hungry tangle of teeth, tongues and skin. This is not a ‘middle of the afternoon’ kiss. It’s not a ‘oh hey, it’s our first, so why don’t we try and figure out how we fit’ kiss. And it’s definitely not a ‘hmm, not really sure but heck, I’ll give it a go’ kiss.

This is a ‘I could swallow you whole’ kiss. A ‘I have to get as much of you as possible’ kiss. A ‘you are mine-mine- _mine_ and no one else’s’ kiss. Licking into each other’s mouths and sucking on each other’s tongues, sliding over one another and both of them trying to get closer, _closer_ and they’re both going to have swollen lips and stubble burn and Dean _does not care_. He’s mapping the inside of Castiel’s mouth, smooth cavity of the roof, hard edges of teeth, hot press of tongue. They’re both breathing hard now and neither one is getting nearly enough oxygen, but they don’t stop, can’t stop. Dean lets Castiel walk him backward two steps until he’s pressing against the wall of the corridor, long strip of crown molding digging into the small of his back. Castiel’s hips push against Dean’s and Dean can’t stop his from snapping back quickly, a delight of desire pulsing down into his groin. Dean runs his tongue over Castiel’s teeth again…

And hisses when the soft muscle is split open. Fuck, that’s a sharp tooth. He tastes blood immediately and for an instant Castiel surges forward and smashes into him hard.

And just as quickly, Castiel has his back to Dean and Dean’s left breathing hard, leaning against the wall for support because frankly, that was a hell of a kiss and his knees are a little weak. Castiel’s shoulders are stiff and controlled, head slightly bowed, fists curled at his sides.

Dean can still taste the salty tang of blood in his mouth. He’s not sure what to say. The only sound for several seconds is the heavy cadence of their lungs trying to catch up on oxygen. Then Dean hears Castiel’s voice.

“I’m sorry… I’m not… I don’t generally…I…”

Dean can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or nervous or what.

“Uh, no need to apologize. I was pretty much as involved as you were.” Dean pushes away from the wall. “Um, are you okay?”

Castiel’s head bobs up and down quickly and Dean will take that as a yes.

“I am…” he pauses as he struggles for a word. “It is… I am slightly overwhelmed.”

“Oh,” says Dean and he thinks he might get it. Maybe stiff upper lip British upbringing doesn’t generally lend itself well to overheated, smoking hot kissing of someone you just met. He’s not sure what he’s doing, and he can’t think of a single person he’s ever tried to comfort before except for Sam, but he steps forward and places a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and gives a solid squeeze and then a gentle rub. “That’s cool. That’s okay,” he says lowly, like he’s talking to a wild animal. “How about I see myself out and you can, uh…” What? What’s the right word? Fuck, Sam would know the right word. Collect? “Um, collect yourself.”

“I would appreciate that, thank you.”

He gives Castiel’s shoulder another squeeze and to his surprise, Castiel’s long fingers come up and grasp his hand once firmly and then release. Dean carefully steps away and quietly makes his way down the hall, then the stairs and then out the door.

******

Castiel’s hearing is superb and once he hears Dean leave he rushes back to the master bathroom and locks the door behind him. Although he doesn’t need to _see_ them, he can feel them, he has the absurd need to check them in the mirror.

His fangs are fully out, sharp to a razor point. He hasn’t fed today. He didn’t feel the need to, he only meant to be milling around the estate. During the kiss he felt them slide out, cutting through his gums bloodlessly, and then Dean had run his tongue over one honed edge and that taste, the first taste of Dean’s blood…

He wanted to bite him. He’d never wanted to bite anyone so badly in his existence as vampire as much as he wanted to bite Dean today. He hadn’t lied, he had been overwhelmed, just not the way Dean thought.

He made that mistake once and he can’t make it again.


	8. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 8 - The Prevarication of Ghostly Friends and Lovers

Sarah’s not Ben’s girlfriend.

Yeah, she’s a girl and she’s a friend, but Ben already has a girlfriend, April. So, Sarah is just a friend who’s a girl.

Plus she’s dead so that kind of makes it impossible for her to be his girlfriend anyway.

But Ben likes her. He likes hanging out with her. She knows a lot. She doesn’t say much sometimes. Some days she talks and talks and talks and other days she doesn’t say a word at all. One day she was crying and Ben didn’t know what to do so he just stood there for a few minutes and then sat down next to her. She didn’t say anything, didn’t stop crying but she didn’t cry as loud. She disappeared for four days after that and when she came back she didn’t say anything about it.

Ben knew she was different right away. He could tell by her clothes. She dressed old. Not like old lady ‘old’ but like his social studies book ‘old’. She had at least two skirts on and some kind of apron. Her red hair went in matching braids down her back.

Sometimes he can tug on the braids. Sometimes he can touch her. But mostly he can’t. His hand just goes right through and it feels real cold and painful and he doesn’t like it. So he doesn’t try very often.

Ben likes Mr. Collins a lot because he’s Sarah’s brother. Sarah told him so. When Sarah talks, she talks a lot about him. She talks about how he used to bring her home sweets and how he taught her how to ride a pony. She had a real pony, she wasn’t making it up. Ben knows that she wouldn’t lie to him. Her pony’s name was Mabel and Sarah said her nose was the softest thing in the world and she got to feed her carrots and apples and brush her hair, but she had to stand on a stool to reach. Mr. Collins would help Sarah ride and taught her how to hold on. Mr. Collins would take Sarah on his horse sometimes and Sarah said they would go so fast that she would squeal.

Ben asked where Mr. Collins horse was now ‘cause he hadn’t seen one around and Sarah said it was a long, long time ago and he didn’t ride horses anymore.

Ben doesn’t know how Sarah got dead. He asked her once. He said it plain as day, ‘How didja get dead?’ She got real quiet and thought for a long time and she said she didn’t know.

What she actually said was, ‘I do not know exactly.’

She talks funny, just like Mr. Collins. Which makes sense, ‘cause they’re brother and sister.

Sarah likes to play in the forest which is fine with Ben because it’s totally cool and there’s tons of wicked stuff out there. And Sarah’s not a weird girl that doesn’t like bugs or other stuff. She’s just as interested as he is when they push a rock over and find stuff underneath.

Sarah knows stuff. Like his step-mom Pam knows stuff. That’s pretty cool too. Just this afternoon when Ben had handed over the blue paint chip to Chuck and told him that Mr. Collins had picked the color for his bedroom, he saw Sarah waving him over. He darted off to the forest and Sarah said they should go play in the woods because her brother wanted to talk to Dean.

She said her brother likes Dean and Ben figures that works out pretty well. Then he and Sarah can be friends and Dean and Mr. Collins can be friends. And maybe they can all go fishing sometime.

But Sarah also told him he has to be careful. She said to never wake her brother up if he’s sleeping. And if he says to go away, Sarah said you have to run as fast as you can and not look back.

He asked her why. He asked if she was afraid of her brother.

She said she wasn’t ever afraid of him. He would never, ever hurt her or hurt Ben. But she repeated, never wake him up if he is sleeping, and if he says to go away, run as fast as you can and don’t look back.

Which sounds reasonable to Ben. He doesn’t like being woken up either and if someone tells him to go away, he doesn’t want to be there anyway. He tells Sarah that and she smiles and nods.

And then they go find some stuff under some rocks and it’s a pretty cool afternoon.

***  
Castiel is not Dean’s boyfriend.

They hardly know each other.

And yeah, they kissed and it was a fucking awesome kiss and given the chance Dean would do it again.

But they aren’t dating or anything so he’s not waiting around to hear from Castiel. It’s been two days but whatever.

Dean’s busy. He’s plenty busy.

Plus, Castiel had seemed a little freaked by the whole thing and Dean’s not pushy. So he’s working at the pub and not being pushy.

Sam ambles into the pub, all long limbs and lean grace and Dean lifts his head by way of greeting.

“Thought you were working tonight?” Dean asks in that way siblings have of cutting right to the matter.

“I am, but I thought I’d stop by and drop this off.”

Sam slides an envelope across the smooth bar top and Dean frowns as he finishes towel drying the mug he was working on.

“What is it?’

“Well, Dean, they have these things called letters and when you want someone to get one you drop it in a ‘mail box.’” He uses his fingers to make air quotes around the words.

Dean snaps the bar towel and Sam skillfully dodges it. He’s been dodging it for years. “Smart ass. I meant, why’dya bring it all the way here?”

“Dude, it was hand couriered. I had to _sign_ for it.”

Dean picks it up and if his stomach does a little flop at the cursive script across the front the spells out his name, no one’s the wiser. He turns it over and it’s got a wax seal on it.

A real fucking wax seal. And that’s… well it’s kinda cool.

“Somethin’ you wanna share with the class, Mr. Winchester?” Sam waggles his eyebrows comically and Dean sneers back. He cracks the red wax seal right in half and slides the thick paper out.

Castiel has bad-ass cursive handwriting, all loopy curves and sharp strokes and if it wasn’t so surreal for Dean to be getting a letter and if it wasn’t from Castiel Collins, Dean would probably smirk. As it is, he reads the words carefully:

 _It would please me greatly if you would join me for dinner, tomorrow, the 17th, at 8pm. CC_

“Fancy,” Sam says, clearly looking over the paper and reading it upside down. “‘CC’? Castiel Collins?”

“Keep your nose outta my stuff,” Dean says gruffly. It’s his big brother tone.

“So, you gotta hot date with Castiel Collins?”

“Shut up, Gigantor,” Dean says as he tries not to blush and carefully folds the paper and slides it in his back pocket.

“Oh my God, you are _blushing_. You like this guy?” Sam leans over across the bar. He was all for teasing Dean until he saw that Dean was maybe a bit shy and nervous about it.

“Look, he just came in once and I stopped off at his place. Ben was there.” Of course, Ben wasn’t really the reason that Dean stopped by, but there’s no need for Sam to know that.

“And now you have an invitation to dinner. You going?”

Dean grabs another beer mug and starts toweling it off, shrugging as though indifferent. “Maybe.”

“Oh, Jesus, you’re blushing again.” Sam laughs. “I’ll have to meet this guy, see what all the fuss is about. He makes Dean Winchester blush.”

Sam’s not quite fast enough this time and the bar towel snaps him in the shoulder. He makes a show of saying ‘ow’ and clutching his shoulder.

“Hey, uh, can I ask you something?” Dean says quietly.

Sam leans in and tries not to smile. “Is it about sex? Because I _am_ a medical professional and can answer all your questions…”

Dean doesn’t snap the towel at him this time, just full on swats him over the head with it.

“… and anything you say will be held in the strictest confidence.” Sam continues quickly.

“Shut up, doofus.” Dean shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “I’m serious.”

“Okay, okay, what?”

“Ben said Castiel has some kind of a sun allergy. You ever heard of anything like that?”

Sam’s thoughtful for a moment. “Solar urticaria is rare but not unheard of.”

“So, you really can be allergic to the sun?”

“Yeah. People get hives and can get a rash. It’s not exactly like a sunburn, that’s tissue damage by UV rays, but an allergy is a response to something the body considers a foreign invader. Like people who are allergic to flowers, their body thinks the pollen is invading and then floods itself with histamines to flush it out. The histamines are your immune system’s response to foreign pathogens. We experience those histamine reactions generally as hives, itchy or watery eyes, runny nose, the usual things you know as allergies.” Sam’s in full on doctor mode now, teasing forgotten.

“Is it serious?”

Sam ponders again. “Well, I don’t know much about it specifically but I imagine it’s like any allergic reaction. Some are mild, some are serious. Like people who have peanut allergies. They can be fatal. If he’s lived with it for a while, he probably knows his tolerances. You should have him stop by the hospital, I would love to talk to him about it.”

“You keep your pokey paws off him.” Dean finger points at Sam.

“Jealously green is an ugly, ugly color on you bro.” Sam pushes back from the bar stool. “So, you gonna say yes? To dinner?”

“None of your business.”

Sam holds up his hands. “Hey, I just wanna know if should send out a search party if you don’t come home.” Again, he waggles his eyebrows.

Dean shoos at him with the towel. “Go. Save lives. Or whatever shit you do over at that fancy hospital.”

Sam laughs as he leaves the pub.

Dean’s left wondering: how do you respond to a written invitation?

***

He thought about calling, but he found out Castiel doesn’t have a phone installed yet.

He thought about writing a note back, but as soon as he saw his chicken-scratch handwriting on lined paper he cringed. It looked lame next to the cream colored stationary and red wax seal.

He thought about going over there. But it seemed weird to go over there and say you were gonna show for dinner the next day. And then what? Just leave?

In the end, he ended up tracking down Chuck on the phone and asked if Chuck could pass along to Castiel that Dean would come to dinner. Chuck must’ve been distracted or something because he seemed confused and said that he already told Castiel that Dean was coming.

Dude was twitchy.

But as long as Castiel got the message, Dean figured it was fine.

The next day brings with it a set of nerves he hadn’t really expected. He didn’t want to do it, but he finally had to break down and ask Sam’s opinion on what to wear.

“Go naked, it’ll save time,” Sam calls from the den.

“Shut up and fucking help me. Jesus.”

“What am I? Fashion designer?”

“Don’t even joke, I saw you watching that show, what’s its name, the one with the clothes and the judging and Heidi Klum.”

“That show is about the competition! They have to make that shit in one day! And Heidi Klum, man.”

“Whatever, get over here and help me, goddamit.”

Which is how they end up in Dean’s bedroom standing in front of the closet.

“I dunno,” says Sam staring at Dean’s clothes. “It didn’t say to dress up did it?”

“You read it. It didn’t say anything.”

“What was he wearing the last time you went over?”

“Dunno,” replies Dean, although he remembers perfectly. “Like, jeans or something.”

Sam huffs. “Just pick a pair of pants and a shirt. This isn’t your first rodeo, cowboy.”

“I swear to God, if you don’t knock it off…”

“Seriously, Dean. He invited you to dinner. He likes you. He’s not gonna care what you’re wearing.”

Sam can tell Dean is nervous and that’s… well that’s pretty unusual. Dean doesn’t get nervous about dating. Dean’s gone on a pile of first dates. A handful of seconds. A few thirds. But he’s friendly with people all day long and can make conversation with pretty much anyone who comes into the pub.

Dean must really like this guy if he’s this nervous.

Sam takes pity on him and pulls a grey sweater from a shelf, a button down shirt to go under it and a pair of pants. Dean’s wardrobe is not big on variety, and nearly everything goes together. Except for the rock n roll t-shirts.

“Here,” he stuffs the clothing into Dean’s arms. “This is good.”

“Yeah?” Dean says, eyes wide and a little anxious.

“Yeah. It’ll look good.”

Dean hesitates a second. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem. Now, about that sex talk…”

Dean motions Sam out with a sock-clad foot. “And you’ve just overstayed your welcome. Beat it.” He toes the door to his room closed in Sam’s face.

“He’ll never marry you if you put out on the first date,” Sam calls through the door.

“I hate you.”

***

Castiel can’t cook.

He never had to before.

He invited Dean for dinner, so something must be done, but he can’t afford to have staff members in the house who could discover his… oddities.

He had expressed to Charles a desire to order in, but Charles was adamant that Castiel could cook, should cook, and would cook. Charles pressured the electrician into wiring the kitchen ahead of schedule, although they had to shut off the electricity to the rest of the main floor to handle the load.

Castiel felt a strange fondness at Charles’ assertions. In fact, Charles had stayed and helped him with the roast, potatoes and salad. Charles placed the bread on a serving platter and left Castiel with strict instructions to leave the roast in the pan to rest until it was ready to serve.

It was also thanks to Charles that they would be dining in the kitchen. He said the dining room was too big for two people and it would look weird.

Charles then carefully suggested that now would be a good time for Castiel to feed, before Dean arrived.

To which Castiel agreed. Castiel knows that Charles is somewhat disappointed when he heads down to the cellar and retrieves a blood bank bag. It was with a heavy heart that Charles left Castiel, even though he himself had plans to go out to a movie with Rebecca Collins.

At a quarter to eight, Castiel is nervous. Dean is coming to dinner. Dean with his green eyes and warm smile. Dean who lights up Castiel’s memory and fills him with longing.

Dean, who he is terrified he will end up hurting. Again.

He tries desperately not to think of Dean as he was, not to think of those last moments, hundreds of years ago. Blood pooling in Dean’s mouth, pale skin stretched over muscle and bone. Lines of pain etched into his face. Eyes glassy and bright and then… nothing.

He cannot think of that. This is his redemption. This is his chance to re-write the past and escape from its claws.

He learned well from his mistakes and does not intend to make them again.

***

Dean’s not nervous.

He told Sam twelve times that he wasn’t nervous.

Because he’s not.

Even as he says it to himself, he catches his hand shaking a little bit as he rings the doorbell. He wipes it off on his pants.

He doesn’t want to have sweaty hands. That would be bad. And embarrassing.

And anyway, there’s no reason for his hands to be sweaty because he is not nervous.

His nose twitches slightly and he can smell rain on the air. There’s a low rumble of thunder off in the distance. The weather called for a storm tonight, although, that’s hardly news at this time of year.

Castiel opens the door and Dean can feel his face automatically respond with a smile. Castiel is casually dressed in a dark blue button down shirt and slacks and Dean is stupidly glad that he’s similarly dressed in pants and a sweater.

“Hey, I hope I’m not late,” he says, but he knows he’s not. He even had to wait for ten minutes down at the end of the ridiculously long driveway that leads up to the old house. Longest ten minutes of his life.

“No, of course not. Please come in.”

There are no lights on in the hallway, but there are candles interspersed along the way, leading a pathway down with puddles of light that barely touch one another.

“I’m afraid we had to cut power to the rest of the main floor so that we could get the kitchen operational,” Castiel says by way of explanation. His voice surfs lightly on the dark, carrying easily across the space.

He’s relieved when Castiel brings him to the kitchen and he sees a small table set up for dinner. He had worried they would be eating in the dining room. He imagined them sitting ridiculously at opposite ends of a table that would take up the space of the room foolishly trying to make conversation across the expanse.

But instead, there is a small square table in the kitchen with worn chairs. It looks warm and… intimate.

He mentally wills away the flush that he can feel creep up his neck at the word.

Thankfully, Castiel has his back to him and is saying something about breakers and circuits. He only catches the last part which ends in Castiel offering him a drink and a seat while he serves dinner.

“Whatever you have is fine,” Dean says with a weird hand wave that he then tries to save by stuffing his hand back in his pocket. “Uh, you want some help?”

“I could not possibly allow you to assist. You are my guest.” He gestures for Dean to have a seat at one of the worn chairs at the table. Castiel grabs two beers from the fridge and sets them on the table.

Dean sits stiffly, not quite ready to relax while Castiel is still standing and at the counter. His back is to Dean as he cuts the roast, but he turns his head slightly, looking over his shoulder as he asks Dean about the pub.

“Do you work every day, or do you take days off?”

“Uh, pretty much every day. Even on my days off I tend to end up there, dropping something off or picking something up. Or something breaks. Or floods,” he says remembering last year when he tried to take a week off and ended up back at the pub, two hours later knee deep in sewage.

Ah, the glamorous life.

He cracks both beers open and takes a swig of one.

“You must be a renaissance man,” replies Castiel easily as he sets a plate down in front of Dean.

Dean smirks. “More like a jack of all trades and master of none.”

Castiel takes his seat opposite Dean and carefully places his napkin before proceeding. Dean watches him surreptitiously and copies his movements. He’s suddenly worried about his manners. Castiel’s so precise with his movements and Dean feels gangly and awkward. Castiel doesn’t appear to notice.

“I thought you said you weren’t much of a cook.”

Castiel gives him an almost shy smile. “I had some assistance. I must admit, it’s been an exceptionally long time since I’ve prepared food. Charles was a great help.”

“Chuck works for you now, I take it?”

“After a fashion. He manages a lot of odd ends for me.”

“I get the impression that writing doesn’t pay a lot of the bills. Must be a relief for him to have something else.”

“I believe he is starting to become more accustomed to my oddities. He’s been invaluable in the restoration of the house and in helping me acclimate to Collinsport.”

Dean asks him questions about the work on the house, about himself. Castiel talks about the house much more easily than about himself. When he does talk about himself or his past, he gets a faraway look in his eyes, as though he’s watching from a distance. Castiel’s blue eyes lose their intense focus for moments at a time, and his voice will take on an absentminded tone. Then, as though shaking himself loose from a cobweb memory, Castiel’s eyes will flick back to a point of convergence, looking at Dean like he’s the only thing in the world.

It’s pretty fucking hot, if Dean’s honest with himself. Every time it happens, Dean smiles automatically.

There is _pie_ for dessert, though Castiel confesses he purchased it from Rufus’ bakery. Everyone in town knows Rufus has the _best_ pie in the world. Rufus himself is a grizzly old guy that looks like he should be some kind of assassin, but when you stand next to him at the grocery store or the bank, he always smells faintly of vanilla and nutmeg.

Tonight’s pie is one of Rufus’ glorious creations. Lemon meringue. The meringue is piled so high, so delicately it seems like a loud noise will cause the whole thing to topple over. The lemon filing is so sharply colored yellow it almost hurts to look at it. Dean’s mouth is already watering as he watches Castiel cut slices and fight them out of the tray. Castiel gets some lemon filling on his thumb and stares at it in slight consternation for a moment before sucking it off. Dean’s watching him so closely he can see his mouth pucker slightly at the sweet-sour lemony goodness.

He’s pretty sure he’ll be dreaming of Castiel and pie for _days_ if not weeks.

As Dean eats, he knows he’s making inappropriate sounds. He’s not going overboard with it. Subtle seduction, thy name _is_ Dean Winchester. It’s not completely gratuitous, but it is suggestive. He could stop. He could tone it down, but he doesn’t. First, the pie really is _that_ good. Rufus does not know how to make a bad pastry and his lemon filling is the best on the planet. Second, while Dean has been pretending to focus intently on his pie, he’s actually been watching Castiel and Castiel has pretty much stopped eating his dessert and is sitting there, with this fork midway to his mouth, his stare intently focused on Dean.

Dean looks up at him.

Castiel puts his fork down.

Dean swallows and sets his own fork aside.

They are like racers at the line, poised, tense, waiting for the gun to go off and give permission to send their bodies into action.

As with the kiss, he would never be sure which one of them moved first. It might have been something as simple as a twitch or a blink by himself or a slight head tilt or lip-parting by Castiel. All Dean knows is _now_.

 _Now_ they are standing hip to hip, pelvises crushed up against each other, and he thinks he heard his own chair topple over to the ground but he’s not about to turn around to check.

 _Now_ he’s got his hands sunk into Castiel’s dark hair and it’s silky and smooth and if it were just a bit longer, it would be the perfect length for him to grab onto. As it is, it’s a fraction too short and Dean’s fingertips end up sliding through with each attempt to clutch.

 _Now_ they are so close to kissing, lips not actually touching yet, and he’s not sure what’s stopping them. He can feel Castiel’s strong grip on his waist, warm breath on his own lips and he’s got a strange sense of deja-vu. He feels slightly dizzy with it, coupled with the anticipation. He desperately wants to move forward and at the same time, he wants to stay in this moment for a heart beat longer so that it will be perfectly clear when he thinks about it later.

 _Now_ they’re kissing. Lips and tongues sliding over each other. Dean’s pulling Castiel’s head closer, pressing his fingers deep into the base of the other man’s skull. Castiel’s hands are likely leaving bruises on Dean’s hips that Dean will look at with a smile for days as they fade. Castiel tastes like pie. Lemony and sharp, with a bit of meringue and Dean will never have lemon pie again without thinking of him, he’s sure of it.

He’s getting hard from just their kiss and he’d be embarrassed about it if he was the only one. He can feel Castiel pressing against him, hot and insistent. A little grunt escapes his throat and Castiel snaps his hips against Dean’s.

There’s a quick clap of thunder and the lights go out leaving them in darkness.

Dean laughs against Castiel’s lips. “Did we do that?” he jokes quietly.

He feels Castiel’s mouth curl up in a smile. “I wish I could say yes, but I’m pretty sure the storm cut the tentative wiring we had on the main floor.”

It’s fantastically intimate being in the dark with Castiel. Dean can hear the rain coming down hard and rhythmically. They are both slightly out of breath, warm puffs of air ghosting over each other’s skin, Castiel’s thumbs tracing small circles on Dean’s hip bones.

“What about upstairs?” Dean asks and it’s a shame his knowingly raised eyebrow and somewhat lascivious look is not visible in the dark.

“Upstairs might still have electricity.”

“We should go check.”

“Indeed we would be remiss if we did not.”

Dean laughs again. “Indeed.” he repeats.

Castiel intertwines his fingers with Dean’s and leads the way back to the hall in which the candles are still burning low. Dean blows them out as he passes, tendrils of smoke curling lazily upward. He feels pleasantly relaxed, a thin thread of anticipation running through his veins like a low level current. He follows closely, his other hand coming up to rest lightly on Castiel’s hip. Castiel pauses for a moment at the foot of the stairs and Dean is filled with the impulse to lean forward and place his lips at the top of his spine, where the bony vertebrae juts out slightly, so he does. Castiel turns his head, chin tucked to shoulder and Dean noses at his ear. Castiel smells warm and strangely familiar and Dean breathes in deep, blowing the breath out against Castiel’s neck.

The stairs are dark, no candles lit along their ascent, and none upstairs either. Castiel’s steps are sure and knowing, never once slow or hesitant. He must know the house well. At the top of the stairs Dean hears him flick a light switch and nothing happens.

He’s deliriously glad and if it wasn’t so utterly ridiculous for him to do so, he’s pretty sure he would giggle. “We should probably check your bedroom,” Dean says lowly, continuing the charade.

Castiel opens the door to his room and the smell of fresh paint wafts over Dean’s nostrils. Castiel drops Dean’s hand and his hip moves out of Dean’s grasp and for a split second Dean panics. He’s in the dark and he can’t see anything. He hears a rough scrape and a match flares to life and he can see Castiel lighting a small candle holder on the dresser.

“I mentioned this house is very similar to how I grew up,” Castiel says lowly as he shakes out the match. “I’m afraid I’m still not very used to electricity and tend to keep candles about. I find their light soothing.”

He says it like he’s a little embarrassed by it, his eyes casting downward as he speaks.

Dean steps toward him and they end up tangled around each other, hands, legs, lips. Dean pulls Castiel’s shirt out of the waistband and intends to work on the buttons but gets distracted when Castiel slides his own hands under Dean’s sweater and shirt and with a fast tug and pull, Dean’s arms are up above his own head so Castiel can yank both garments off. One of Dean’s hands gets caught in the cuff and he’s cursing and struggling to shake it free as Castiel is undoing his pants and pressing him backwards on to the bed. Dean falls, his breath escaping him in a huff as he lands ungracefully on the soft mattress and pushes his pants, shoes and socks off with frantic feet.

Holy fuck, Castiel got him down to his boxers in pretty much thirty seconds flat.

Impressive.

Dean shimmies upward on the bed as Castiel crawls on top of him and it’s completely ridiculous that Castiel is still entirely clothed, except for his shoes and socks and Dean can’t really say what happened to those. He wants to tell Castiel to get undressed, in fact he wants to help, but his mouth is otherwise occupied with Castiel’s tongue and lips and when Castiel slides his hand past the waistband of Dean’s boxers and starts to fist him slowly, all Dean can do is jerk his hips and groan at the sensation.

Castiel’s tongue is hot and insistent in Dean’s mouth and his hand is firm and steady and it’s hands down the best fucking hand job of his life. Dean can only thrust upward into Castiel’s grasp as Castiel’s long fingers move up and down his cock, thumb pressing into the slit, squeezing out precome and smoothing it down the shaft.

Castiel is licking at Dean’s jaw and his neck, pressing the tip of his tongue into the pulse point of Dean’s throat and Dean’s vaguely aware that his own hands are clutching the dark fabric of Castiel’s shirt, distorting the fibers and destroying the shape. He’s about one minute away from coming, from just this, and he’s trying to convey it but he’s lost the ability to form sentences. It’s like Castiel somehow knows every single one of his hot spots and is working his way through them all.

“Cas,” he moans, the shortened nickname rolling off his lips like he’s been using it forever, “I can’t… ungh…” Castiel twists his hand perfectly and Dean bucks up harder. “I’m gonna… I can’t… please…”

He hasn’t needed to come this bad from only someone’s hand since he was sixteen years old in the back of Impala. Castiel’s rocking his hips against Dean’s his hand steady and sure on Dean’s cock, fingers trailing down to run over Dean’s balls, his own erection pressing hotly against Dean’s thigh. Castiel’s intense gaze is focused solely on Dean, the blue of his iris’ nearly blown out by the black of his pupils.

“Wait..” he manages. “I need…I’m gonna,” he pants.

Castiel licks the tip of his tongue from the base of Dean’s neck up the side and to Dean’s ear. “I know. I want you to,” Castiel breathes into Dean’s ear. “I want to feel you in my hand, watch you.” He laps Dean’s ear lobe delicately and then pulls back to see his face again. “Do it,” he says lowly, his voice gravelly and deep. His tongue darts out to lick at Dean’s lip. “Do it so I can watch you.”

Dean’s breath hitches and his entire body snaps in a second of almost painful tension and then he’s coming hard in Castiel’s hand. Castiel’s eyes are precision-focused on him and Castiel’s other hand is under Dean’s head, keeping it from arching backward, keeping Dean’s face level with his own. Castiel’s deft fingers milk Dean past the point where he thought he was totally spent until his cock gives another hard twitch and Dean’s hips give one last thrust.

Dean’s out of breath like he’s been running and his hands are still fisted painfully in Castiel’s shirt. Castiel pulls his hand out of Dean’s boxers and, keeping his eyes on Dean’s, slides two of his come-covered fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean.

Dean uses his grip to yank Castiel down sharply and kiss him hard, bruisingly hard. He can taste himself and a faint trace of lemon too. With a pulse of strength and renewed arousal, he flips them over, bracketing Castiel’s hips with his thighs. He rocks his pelvis against Castiel’s erection a couple of times just to take in the feel of it.

“This shirt has pretty much had it,” he says as he pulls sharply and sends buttons flying. Castiel laughs and Dean grins at the sound. His fingers card through Dean’s hair as Dean mouths his way down Castiel’s chest, pausing to suck first at one nipple and then the other. Dean hovers over Castiel’s waist, tongue dipping into the other man’s belly button as his fingers work at the clasp and zipper of his pants. He gets them open, wiggles the pants and Castiel’s boxers over sharp hipbones, eases them carefully over Castiel’s hard length. Castiel gives a sigh of relief when Dean slides the fabric off. Dean kneels between his legs and runs his hands up and over the bones of Castiel’s pelvis, fingertips brushing lightly over the skin stretched tight. Dean meets his eyes as he leans down and flicks his tongue over the tip and Castiel hisses in pleasure. Castiel’s got one hand in Dean’s hair, but it’s careful, gentle. The other hand is fisted tightly in the bedspread, pulling at it as Dean’s mouth closes over the sensitive head.

Castiel is making rumbling, fucked out noises as Dean works him over with his tongue groaning out Dean’s name when Dean licks a long stripe up the underside and uses his fingers to massage his balls gently. Castiel’s begging now, and Dean loves every syllable that’s falling from his lips and he sucks harder at Castiel’s cock, as hard as he can. Castiel comes with a hoarse, intelligible shout, sending a hot pulse into Dean’s mouth that he swallows greedily.

Dean licks his way off, eyes holding Castiel’s gaze as he does. Castiel grabs one of Dean’s hands and yanks him forward, pulling him off balance and he falls on top of his chest with a soft ‘thwack.’ They shift and roll, slide and tug until they get under the covers, puffs of laughter escaping them. Castiel finally gets his shirt the rest of the way off and Dean shucks his boxers. Dean’s never been much for cuddling, and in fact generally only puts up with it instead of actively enjoying it. But as Castiel stretches out on his back and pulls him in, he finds himself going willingly, twining his legs with Castiel’s unconsciously, resting their upper bodies together.

“Next time we’ll have to get all our clothes off first, Cas,” Dean mumbles against Castiel’s neck. Castiel’s lips are against the top of his head and he can feel him smile.

“I guess we’ll just have to keep trying until we get it right,” Castiel says playfully.

Dean wants to say something clever and witty but his full belly and fucked out body are dragging him down into sleep.


	9. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 9 - I'd Break the Back of Love For You

Chuck stares at the horse as it goes by. The horse does not care.

Chuck’s never had a vision of the past before.

So that’s weird.

He’s googled his ‘situation’ and near as he could figure he’s precognitive. He sees the future.

Only now he’s seeing the past.

Does that make him post-cognitive? Is that even a word?

He tries not to let it distract him as he focuses on what he sees. He sees Collinsport. It’s not like he can tell it’s Collinsport on his own. But there’s a big sign over the general market that says “Collinsport General Market,” and similarly, “Collinsport Trust” for the bank. He walks around and is ignored. He walks past women in busy dresses, holding packages. Men with hats and canes. Carriages with horses.

He knows where he is going.

He’s going to Collinwood. He feels like he’s being pulled there.

Chuck’s visions are not like real life. They’re definitely _other_. Sometimes he smells stuff, sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he can touch stuff, other times his hand goes right through. Sometimes he can hear something clear as a bell and other times it’s like he’s listening to the world from the bottom of a barrel.

A very large, dark barrel with bad acoustics.

Tonight’s vision is one of the ‘look don’t touch’ kind. He tries to grab onto the branch of a tree as he passes by casually and his fingers slip through, never gaining purchase. He leaves the town behind and heads for Collinwood. At this point in time, Collinwood is outside of town. He ambles down a mucky road, thankful it’s not a tactile dream or he’s sure his feet would stick in the sucking mud and he’d lose his shoes. And then he’d be barefoot and the mud would squish between his toes and Chuck hates that feeling.

After a time, he ends up at Collinwood. It’s beautiful. Shiny and new looking in a way it doesn’t look now, even after the restoration. There are people bustling about; servants, footmen, gardeners and the like. It’s a hive of activity. He walks by them all without so much as a glance. He’s not here to see them.

He blinks and he’s in the drawing room.

He’s not alone.

Castiel is there and he turns to walk out the French doors and Chuck follows him. In the strange way of dreams, Castiel throws open the French doors and as they step through, they are not outside but upstairs, in Castiel’s bedroom. Not his bedroom now, not the master suite, but the smaller room that he lived in previously. It’s small in comparison to the master suite, but it’s huge compared to the size of bedrooms now. They sneak out of the small secret door in the closet. Chuck turns behind him and sees the living room just as they left it, and it seems perfectly normal in that dreamlike way that whatever you see, you accept as reality.

Chuck turns back to the bedroom and Dean is standing there smiling at Castiel. Only he’s not Dean. Not Dean _now_. He’s Dean _then_. Chuck feels like a pervy voyeur as he watches Castiel step forward assuredly and Dean and Castiel end tangled up in an embrace and kissing. Chuck studies the floorboards until he hears their voices.

“What’s wrong?” asks Dean. “You look…” his voice trails off as he studies Castiel. “Worried?” Dean guesses.

Castiel sighs and it’s a tired, regretful sound. “It’s nothing. Ruby.”

“She was here again?” Dean becomes agitated. “She’s dangerous.”

“She’s troubled.”

“Dangerous,” Dean repeats firmly. “I know you think she’s only crazy…”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“But it’s not just insanity that runs through her family’s veins. I’ve told you. I think she has witchcraft in her blood.”

Castiel pulls slightly away. “Don’t start that again. Can we not simply agree that she’s insane?”

“Insane but not harmless. I mean it, Cas. I’ve heard things about her and her family.” Dean shakes his head. “I don’t like how fixated she is on you.”

“She’ll grow out of it.”

“I don’t know,” replies Dean unconvinced.

“What would you have me do? I can’t turn her into the authorities for being troubled. Nor will I even consider turning her in as witch. Witchcraft or no, those witch-hunters are animals. They’re drunk on the blood and the pain and they do not care about anything other than torturing human flesh for the good of the soul.”

“No,” agrees Dean tiredly. “No, you’re right. Though I believe her to be a witch, I cannot stomach the thought of handing her over to hunters. God only knows who else in the town they will turn on if they take Ruby. Once those fanatics start, they’re unstoppable and would likely kill scores of innocents. I just… I don’t like that she comes here. If she were a man I would call her out.”

“Pistols at dawn?” Castiel jokes.

“It’s not a joking matter.”

“I know,” replies Castiel soothingly, his palms running up and down Dean’s arms.

“Let’s go away for a fortnight.”

Castiel considers it. “Where?”

“I don’t care. We’ll pack our bags and ready the horses and leave. We’ll tell them we’ve gone hunting or on a men’s vacation… I don’t care,” he repeats. “Just let’s go.”

Castiel studies Dean for a moment and then his lips break into a smile. “Yes. Let’s go.”

Time slides and Chuck can feel it pass over his skin like feathers being pulled against the grain of the fine hairs on his arm.

Dean and Castiel are riding their horses hard, trying to beat the storm back to Collinwood.

They don’t make it and end up trapped in a deluge of cold rain. Chuck watches as they crest over the hill on their animals and gallop back into the stables, rain slicking their way, making the grass shiny with water.

Chuck is in one of the stalls of the stable when Dean and Castiel enter, laughing and smiling as they pull their horses behind them.

Chuck’s not alone.

Ruby is there, hiding in one of the dark corners and though he’s never seen her before, he knows immediately it’s her. Dark hair falls down her shoulders, and her eyes glint in the half-light. Chuck watches her watch them. She is supremely focused, gaze unbreaking, tracking Dean and Castiel as they stow the gear for their horses, neither one caring that they are cold and wet. Their animals need tending first and they unerringly remove saddle, bridles and pads, rubbing the horses down with blankets, ensuring they are dry and warm, properly fed and watered before they consider themselves done.

Ruby doesn’t move, still as a lioness on the plains as it stalks prey. Make a move and you risk startling the other animals. She hardly breathes, but her eyes are fierce and Chuck sees blackness cloud over them, swirling liquid darkness that eats the white and the iris of her eyes.

He shouldn’t be cold, he’s not really there. But he is. He’s freezing.

Castiel and Dean are talking but Chuck can’t make out the words. He feels pulled in by Ruby’s eyes, a strange disconnect between where he was and where he is now. He can hear their voices from very far away.

Suddenly he’s beside Ruby, crouched down near the floor next to her. She doesn’t turn her head as she speaks, but she does lean in closer to him.

“He was always meant for me. I knew it from the moment I saw him, he should be mine. And I tried, I tried to make him love me, but there was always another. And I never could figure out who. This is how I found out. This was how I caught them. Living, laughing, _loving_ ,” she hisses and as Chuck looks from her to the men, he sees that Dean and Castiel have leaned in and are kissing. “And I knew,” Ruby continues, her voice calm and cold in the dark. “I knew he would never want me as long as _he_ was still around. As long as he was still alive.”

Chuck looks back at Ruby, horrified. She hasn’t broken her stare from Castiel and Dean. In the darkness, Chuck can barely make out her profile, just the hint of a nose and chin, a wisp of hair, but her eyes glow like black coal, inky and unnatural.

“If I could make _him_ go away, then Castiel would be alone. I could make him into a creature that could never die, turn him into something new, something stronger, and we would never be apart. I can’t do the magic on myself, but I can turn him and then he can turn me. Castiel would need someone after _he_ was dead. He would need someone to hold onto and I would be that someone.”

“You can’t,” Chuck says weakly and Ruby finally turns from Dean and Castiel kissing and under the press of her eyes, Chuck flinches.

“I can, I _did_. You’ll see. You’ll see it all. You’ll understand what I did and how I did it.” She is fierce, spitting her words out with venom and hatred. Then, like her strings are cut, she softens and she’s pleading, almost crying. “But you know why, don’t you? You see why I’ll do it? Why I had to do it? I love him and he won’t love me back. He won’t. But he has to, I need him to, I _need_ him. It hurts, it hurts so much and it won’t ever stop.”

She’s clawing at her dress, pulling the fabric, tearing the stitches.

“You can’t,” Chuck repeats. “Don’t, please don’t.”

She laughs and Chuck’s eyes dart over to Dean and Castiel who are also laughing and leaving the stables, oblivious to what’s going on in the dark corner. Chuck turns back to Ruby.

“It’s done. It’s all done and finished.” She stops and grabs at Chuck’s arms. “But I can’t see how it ended. Tell me how it ended. I see the blood and the bones, his body broken and twisted and I see his teeth and more blood but after that…nothing. I can’t see past the darkness. Tell me. Tell me how it ends.” Her nails are digging into Chuck’s arm and he’s frantically pulling back, trying to get away from her but she’s fierce and won’t let go.

“I… I don’t know! I haven’t seen it.”

“But you must know! You have to tell me. You have to tell me it all worked and I am with Castiel and we are together for eternity. We drink and we feed and we are always beautiful and in love. Tell me, please.”

“I can’t,” Chuck yelps, finally pulling his arm free. He falls backward onto his ass and he scrambles further away from Ruby. He doesn’t want to tell Ruby he’s never seen her in the future. Her future, his present. He feels, he _knows_ if he does something terrible will happen to him at her hands. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “I don’t. I’m not… I’m not very strong. I can ‘t control what I see and I haven’t seen it.”

Her look changes from one of desperation to pity. “You can’t even control what you see?”

“No, I can’t.”

She laughs. “Oh! Oh you’re just a baby! You can’t even control your visions. Poor thing.”

“Yes, I’m a poor thing,” Chuck echoes.

She continues to laugh even as Chuck feels himself slide sideways through time again. This time it feels like being dragged by an undertow, strong and sure, and he doesn’t even want to fight it.

He blinks in bright sunlight. He’s gone from the darkness of the stables to a sunny day on the docks of Collinsport. Men bustle about and the spray of seawater is salty and damp on Chuck’s face. The sunlight dances off the water, creating darts of happy light. He hears Dean’s voice, loud and strong, and he follows it.

Dean is helping unload a ship. While he’s doing the same work as the other men, it’s clear he doesn’t quite belong. His clothes are finer, his attitude more sure and easy. Chuck realizes the other men must be Dean’s employees, for while he calls them all by their first name, they address him as ‘sir.’ He must be in charge of some kind of import-export business. The other men clearly like and respect him, and follow his orders without a thought.

They’ve just finished heaving a huge load of crates netted together off the ship with their massive pulley system and are swinging it out past the ship and toward the dock.

Chuck knows what will happen before it does.

Chuck’s eyes are pulled up to the fulcrum of the pulley where the rope is fraying.

Chuck can see Ruby, in his head, dancing, twirling herself in a circle. She’s singing softly as she holds a small rope in her hands and begins unwinding it.

The rope on the pulley on the docks begins to unwind faster.

Ruby’s singing turns to laughter and she pulls the strand of rope apart in her hands quickly. Spinning herself around in a happy skip, dark hair flying around her.

Chuck watches as part of the rope splits. The men are focused on the load the rope carries and not the rope itself. They don’t notice.

Ruby stops her twirling, breathless and gleeful and picks up a tiny doll. It has short, dark blonde hair sewn to its head, and a button affixed to the front of it. Chuck knows without seeing the button up close that if he checked Dean’s jacket, he’d find a button missing from it.

She may be insane, but Ruby _is_ a witch and witchcraft is what she does best. She takes one last carefree and euphoric spin, her skirts reaching out far beyond her frame, her hair flying out with the momentum and in that moment she’s beautiful.

And horrible.

She smashes the doll on the desk and there’s a sickening crunch that makes Chuck flinch.

His eyes are drawn up to the fulcrum and he wants to shout, he wants to run but he can’t do either. He’s frozen as he sees the rope snap and the crates start to fall.

There’s shouting.

Yelling.

The crates are falling.

It’s nauseating.

Dizzying.

The last he sees of Dean he’s shoving another man violently out of harm’s way so hard the other man flies off the dock and into the water.

The crates land on him and it’s the most awful sound Chuck has ever heard.

There’s a heartbeat of stillness and silence and then like everyone has been jolted with electricity at the same time they snap into action and men are shouting and running and they’re pulling broken wood boxes off Dean’s body ( _Dean’s body_ ) and the blood… They’ve got him uncovered and blood is already running from his nose and his mouth and his ears. He’s not moving and Chuck thinks he’s already dead.

He prays he’s already dead.

Chuck slides through time and space again, wishing that he could leave the sight of Dean broken and bloody behind him when he shifted but it dives into his brain and holds on like a spiked sliver sliding into flesh, unable to be removed without taking chunks with it.

Dean has been moved to Collinwood. Chuck finds himself in the same room as Dean. Dean’s broken body is stretched out on a small bed. Chuck has to remind himself he’s dreaming of the past and they probably didn’t realize the amount of damage they did moving Dean, jostling him through the streets of Collinsport, moving him up the stairs of Collinwood. One of the men from the docks stands in the doorway, tight-faced and grim, keeping watch. The housekeeper is a stern faced yet beautiful woman and she is gentle as she fixes the pillows around Dean’s head and she runs a hand down his face. She knows him, Chuck realizes. She touches Dean’s arm, the unmangled one, and lightly holds his fingers, and Chuck sees she likes him too. She smoothes his brow and leans in close to whisper in his ear. It’s not loud enough that the dock foreman can hear, but it is loud enough for Chuck to listen in.

“I’ve sent the footmen to fetch Castiel. He’s coming. I know he’s coming as fast as he can. Please wait for him, if you can. Please.”

 _She knows_ Chuck realizes. She knows about Dean and Castiel.

Doctor Singer arrives and the foreman is ushered outside. The housekeeper, Ellen, stands back and lets him begin his examination. He runs his hands over all of Dean’s body and his face gets more and more bleak as he does. He rests his ear on Dean’s chest for a few rattly breaths and he peels Dean’s eyelids back for a look at his irises. The way Dean’s body moves as it’s prodded and poked… it’s broken. Chuck turns away from the grisly sight, staring out the small window at the expanse of the Collinwood estate.

After a time, Chuck can hear the loud boom of the front door downstairs being thrown open and then the fast staccato of Castiel’s boots on the marble hallway and wooden stairs as he runs. He reaches the room with Dean, Singer and Ellen and pushes the door open. Singer is pulling a blanket up and over Dean to his shoulders.

“What happened?” Castiel’s out of breath and wide-eyed and then his eyes fix on Dean, laid out, pale, unmoving.

The foreman is behind Castiel and he coughs to get his attention but Castiel doesn’t turn around, doesn’t take his eyes off Dean.

“A rope, it snapped. The entire lot came down on him. He saved Jeremiah’s life, but he… there wasn’t time…”

The doctor swallows and turns to Ellen.

“Perhaps, if you would be so kind and you know the information, letters should be sent to his family immediately.”

“Yes,” Ellen nods, eyes flitting over to Dean, then Castiel and back to the doctor.

“If possible, they should make arrangements to come presently with haste.”

Ellen nods again. “I will see it done.” She moves to leave but pauses by Castiel, her hand coming out to rest on his, her fingers tightening, her eyes dark and liquid. Castiel spares her a quick glance and what he sees in her eyes ( _death, death, death has come calling_ ) makes his breath hitch.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers and she is gone, the door shutting softly behind her.

Castiel blinks rapidly in succession, red lines beginning to thread through the whites of his eyes, unshed tears of shock and disbelief making the blue of his irises painfully bright and clear. He stares at Doctor Singer who is steeling himself.

Castiel starts shaking his head before the doctor even starts.

“What must be done?” Castiel asks. It sounds like he’s speaking with a barrel of rocks on his chest, the words being forced out painfully. “Tell me and I’ll see to it.”

“My boy,” Singer starts and Castiel takes a step away from him.

“No.”

“His back is broken. As are both his legs.”

“He’s still alive.”

“I hope for his sake he does not stay that way for long.”

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and Chuck wishes he were anywhere else but trapped in this room.

“Don’t say that!”

Doctor Singer does not flinch at the volume nor the fist shaking in his face. “He’s broken some of his ribs as well as his collarbone and most of his left arm although it’s hardly of consequence at this point. His internal structure… the damage that was inflicted… he is beyond medicine.”

“No, there must be something. You will send word to Boston. They have more knowledgeable practitioners there. I can pay them whatever they wish.” Castiel’s voice has a keening quality to it that makes the hairs on Chuck’s neck stand up.

“I will send for them if you so desire, but they will not be able to help.”

Castiel shakes his head again and it’s the frantic movements of a person trying desperately to make their brain process something it can’t. He pushes his hands through his hair, making it stick out at impossible angles. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and pushes hard against the soft tissue.

Doctor Singer takes a small bottle with a dropper out of his bag and sets it on the nightstand.

“If he wakes, he will most likely be in a great deal of pain. The laudanum will help. I will prepare a stronger dose immediately and bring it over as soon as it’s ready. This one wasn’t meant for… it’s not enough. When I bring the new batch tomorrow morning, there is… You need not worry about administering too much.” Doctor Singer gives him a pointed look.

Castiel’s hands are at his side and he’s staring at the small bottle on the nightstand like it’s poison. The doctor’s words may be lost on Castiel but Chuck hears the message loud and clear.

“It would be best for him if he did not wake,” the doctor finishes. Castiel turns his face away.

Doctor Singer pauses at the door, as though there’s more he wants to say but he leaves without making a sound.

Chuck doesn’t know where to look as Castiel falls to his knees beside the bed and starts sobbing soundlessly. It’s horrible to watch. His chest heaves, his palms pressed hard to the floor but no sound escapes. At first, it’s like his grief is so painful he cannot even form tears and it’s just this dreadful, dry crying jag, shoulders shaking, mouth agape. Castiel lungs are pushing out wretched gags and he can’t even stop to breathe in. Just when Chuck thinks Castiel will pass out from lack of oxygen, he pulls in a harsh breath and starts the process all over again, only now there are tears.

Chuck didn’t know the body could cry like that without breaking.

Castiel’s forehead is resting on the floor, his body bent in half. One of his hands snakes up over the side of the bed, finds Dean’s fingers and holds on.

Chuck wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He can barely watch but he feels like he has to, like his sole purpose in coming back here, to this moment, to this hideous, ghastly moment, is to bear witness.

If Castiel could stand to live through it, then Chuck can stand to watch.

He’s not sure how much time passes, how long Castiel stays curled up on the floor, his fingers holding onto Dean’s. The sky has gone dark with night, the moon low and yellow in the sky. A harvest moon. It fills Chuck with terror to see it so large and looming. He can understand why ancient man feared the sky.

The soundless, wracking sobs have shifted to silent, streaming tears. Castiel’s on his side now, face pressed into the floorboards, tears running over the bridge of his nose and out of the corner of his eyes and seeping into the wood. Chuck’s so focused on Castiel that he misses Dean’s fingers twitching around Castiel’s.

Castiel’s on his knees and leaning over Dean so fast it’s like he’s been struck by lightning. Dean’s green eyes are only half open but they’ve immediately found Castiel and are focused on him. Dean’s lips are moving but no sound comes out.

Castiel knows what questions Dean would ask first and is answering without even having to hear them. “You’re at Collinwood. No one else was hurt.”

Dean closes his eyes in understanding and relief. When he opens them again, they’ve retained their precision focus on Castiel. His fingers tighten slightly on Castiel’s and Castiel leans in closer, tilting his head to place his ear close to Dean’s lips. In the stillness of the room, the oppressive quiet, Chuck can hear Dean’s question easily.

 _Dying?_

Castiel can’t answer. His face contorts with emotion and he drops his head to the mattress wordlessly. Dean blinks a few times as he processes the non-verbal response. His arm is the one part of him that’s not crushed or broken and he’s able to pull his fingers out of Castiel’s grasp so that he can push them into the dark softness of Castiel’s hair and massage his fingertips into Castiel’s scalp.

Castiel sits up slowly and traps Dean’s uninjured hand between his own and holds it close to his lips.

“The doctor left laudanum. Do you need some?”

 _Yes._

Castiel takes the small bottle and dropper and carefully places small liquid pearls into Dean’s mouth. His hands shake as he places the bottle back on the nightstand. Dean doesn’t sleep so much as drift in and out of consciousness. The night is long, eerily so, broken up only by Ellen bringing in pitchers of both hot and cold water and some dinner for Castiel. Ellen pulls a chair over close to the bed for Castiel and he wipes Dean’s face with a hot cloth and uses a separate clean cloth to wet his lips and tongue with cold water.

He leaves his dinner untouched on the dresser.

Dean stirs every so often and Castiel gives him additional laudanum. Chuck doesn’t think it dulls the pain so much as clouds over Dean’s senses. Dean’s breathing has a wet rattle to it, clotty and dark. A few times he’s heaved up a load of blood and it spills out of his mouth and over his lips, staining his teeth red. Castiel says nothing as he cleans Dean up carefully.

Chuck wishes Dean would die. He knows that’s how this ends. He just didn’t expect it to take so long. Dean makes it through the night and when the sun starts peeking into the sky, Chuck stands by the window and watches it rise. He feels like it shouldn’t be a sunny day. It shouldn’t promise to be such a nice day with Dean’s wet breathing echoing through his ears.

Doctor Singer comes by sometime after breakfast which consisted of a plate of toast and tea that Castiel didn’t even glance at. Singer’s surprise and disappointment that Dean is still alive is visible on his face. Chuck knows they’re all thinking the same thing. Ellen, Singer and himself. Everyone except Castiel.

They’re all wishing Dean would hurry up and die.

Singer sets a new bottle on the nightstand.

“This solution is much stronger than the other one,” he says gruffly and Chuck can see the doctor willing to make himself understood without saying the words out loud. “If you give the same amount… well, at this point, it would help him the most.”

Castiel doesn’t look up at the doctor, but his eyes are fixed on both small bottles on the worn wood of the nightstand. Doctor Singer pauses to say something to Ellen who is standing just outside the doorway, watching silently. She nods grimly as the doctor takes his leaves. She comes to stand behind Castiel and places her hand on his shoulder. He’s slumped down in the chair, legs splayed out at awkward angles. It’s clear from his eyes that he hasn’t slept all night. They are red-rimmed and bright, the blue of his irises painfully stark.

“You should rest,” says Ellen softly, calmly. “And eat something. I will have the cook prepare anything you wish.”

“I can’t… I’m not hungry.”

“Go rest. I will stay with him.”

“If I leave and he… while I’m gone if he…”

Her knuckles turn white as her grip on his shoulder increases. “I can have the footmen bring a bed in here.”

His hand comes up to rest over hers. “No, the chair is fine.”

His fingers tighten over hers for a moment and Chuck sees something terrible flash over Castiel’s eyes and a sick dread curls in Chuck’s stomach.

“There is perhaps something… I do not… I must leave for a while.”

“Yes,” Ellen agrees. “Go to your quarters and I will stay with him.”

“No, I must go out.” Castiel stands and sways slightly until his legs steady underneath him. “You will stay with him?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t leave him. Don’t leave him alone,” Castiel pleads and Ellen shakes her head.

“I will not.”

Castiel leans over Dean and whispers in his ear. “Please wait for me. I… there may be… you must wait for me to return.”

Time slides again and Chuck goes with it willingly, relieved to be leaving Dean’s deathbed behind him.

Castiel is pounding on a door, fist high and strong and he’s yelling.

“Ruby! Let me in! Ruby!”

A harried butler answers the door and Castiel pushes him aside and strides in screaming Ruby’s name. She appears at the top of the stairs, looking calm and serene and Castiel takes the stairs three at a time and in a moment he’s at the top, crushing her arms in a painful grip.

“You know things, do you not? You can do things.” He pulls her close to him and hisses. “Unnatural things.”

She smiles at him and with a wave dismisses the butler. “It’s alright, Forster. Mr. Collins and I have business.”

The butler crosses himself and scurries off, eager to be away from his deranged mistress. Ruby starts walking backward and beckons Castiel to follow her with the crook of her finger.

When they enter the room, Castiel gasps at what he sees and even though Chuck’s not really there, Chuck’s just dreaming, he nearly pukes.

The stench is horrible. Death, decay, rotting things. There’s a table in one corner with a copper bowl and small animal bones are strewn about, blood mixed in. There’s a small cage in another corner and inside it are rats, clawing overtop of one another making horrid squeaking noises in the dark.

The room is nearly void of light save for a few candelabra burning inside chalk circles etched with strange symbols. Ruby has a dark alter set up at the far end of the room. A cross hangs upside down over it and strange words are inscribed on the black banners that hang over it. Chuck thinks that no matter what the witch trials would have done to Ruby, they should have just handed her over.

Like the butler downstairs, Castiel crosses himself.

“My God,” he murmurs.

“Oh you won’t find him here. I’ve brought just about every other creature of power to bow before me but not him, never him. He’s not the helpful sort.” She steps over to her alter, offers it a little bow and then turns to face Castiel, draping her arms across the alter table. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“You know what has happened.”

She makes a tut-tut sound. “Yes, terrible accident. I hear he still lives. He must be strong.”

Castiel is too exhausted and emotionally overrun to hear the venom in her voice, but Chuck hears it. Chuck sees how her fingers clench and unclench almost against her will.

“Heal him. Make him live. Can you do it?”

She pauses like she’s thinking, hips swaying girlishly. “Possibly. It would take very powerful magic. But…” she levels her dark eyes at him. “What’s my return?”

“I’ll marry you,” Castiel says without hesitation, the words snapped out immediately. He would promise anything to save Dean, Chuck realizes and he already made his decision before he came here.

Ruby smiles. “Deal.”

Chuck shivers and at this point, even though he knows he’s not really there, he’s just watching, he crosses himself as well.

“All deals must be sealed,” Ruby says, leaning further forward.

“How?” Castiel barks. He’s not interested in prolonging anything. He needs to save Dean and whatever he needs to do, he’s prepared.

“A kiss.”

He grimaces slightly at that but grabs her brutally around the waist and presses his lips hard to hers. She flings her arms around him enthusiastically and pulls him close, pushing her breasts into his chest.

He shoves her away and she stumbles slight, a smile playing on her lips.

“I always knew that underneath your gentlemanly exterior you would like it rough.”

“Shut up and get to work.”

***

Ruby’s chanting over the copper bowl. She threw in a melange of items, all fetid and rotten, and stirred them with her extra long pinky nail. The nail makes a horrible scratching sound against the copper that leaves Chuck cringing in the corner. Castiel is pacing back and forth, trying not to let his eyes focus on any of Ruby’s dark paraphernalia. Ruby lights some dead moss from a candle and tosses the smoldering mess into the chunky, soupy mixture she has in the bow.

Chuck prays _really hard_ that Castiel will not have to drink it, but it doesn’t look good.

Ruby has two copper chalices and she scoops up some of soppy liquid into one, a long string of something hanging over the edge of the cup and Ruby plucks it free and it lands back in the copper bowl with a ‘thwack.’

Chuck dry heaves a little.

She pours the mixture from one chalice to the other as she chants. Chuck thinks it might be Latin or something similar to Latin. Every so often it’s like he thinks he almost understands the words.

Ruby cuts a lock of her hair, sets it alight too and tosses it into the copper bowl.

It sizzles and bubbles as it hits and a wet air pocket seeps up through the mess and pops with a mucky ‘thwop.’

Chuck dry heaves again.

Ruby pours the contents of both chalices back into the copper bowl and beckons Castiel over. He stands off to the side of her alter, his mouth is turned down in grim distaste but also determination. She passes him one of the chalices.

 _Oh shit,_ thinks Chuck. _He is going to have to drink it_.

Ruby doesn’t say anything to Castiel but indicates with a jerk of her head that he should hold the chalice. She steps off to the side and then grips his hip, moving him over into position in front of the altar. She places his other hand on the other chalice.

She’s still chanting softly as she steps over to the rat cage.

Chuck gets a little bit of bile in his throat this time when he heaves. Castiel doesn’t move.

Ruby pulls two of the squirming, squealing rats out of the cage. She pets them fondly and brings them over to the altar.

She sets one down and quick as a flash, impales its tail with a knife, keeping it in one spot on the altar. Castiel’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t flinch. Ruby takes the other rat, and with the knife, slits its throat quickly, holding it over the copper bowl and draining it. It squirms and writhes for a while and with a cruel twist of her wrist, Ruby _wrings_ it out like a dishcloth, bobbing it up and down a few times to get all the blood.

Chuck feels dizzy.

Ruby stands in front of the altar, Castiel behind it. She places one hand on each of his, on the chalice. She keeps chanting as she looks at him and guides one of his hands to scoop up the rank liquid with the chalice and then pour it into the other one. They pour back and forth nine times and then empty both back into the copper bowl.

“Now, drink three times from the bowl.”

Chuck feels his lip break out in a cold, sick sweat.

Castiel doesn’t flinch. He picks up the bowl with both hands assuredly and takes three drinks from the bowl. He sets it down and has to put a fist over his mouth to keep the liquid from coming back up.

He looks at Ruby questioningly.

“Kill the rat by biting its neck and drinking the blood.”

Castiel does flinch this time but he takes the knife out of the rat’s tail, picks up the twisting creature, and holds in front of himself. His eyes flick back over to Ruby, painfully blue and intense. She nods once.

He snaps his teeth on the rat and breaks the skin. It shrieks loudly. Blood runs down his chin and he stares at Ruby.

Chuck vomits.

The rat falls silent and Castiel puts it back down on the altar. He stumbles backward, wipes at his face with the back of his hand and smears blood across it. He falls to the ground. Ruby steps around the altar and stands over him.

“I think it will hurt. I think it will hurt quite a bit actually.”

Castiel’s limbs are folding in on themselves, harsh spasms force them back out again. His head lolls back and smacks the floor hard. It’s like a grand-mal seizure. He thrashes, his fingers locked in a painful curl, his back arching backward, gagging noises coming from his lips and he starts to foam at the mouth.

Through it all Ruby stands over him and watches calmly. She hardly blinks and isn’t even tense.

Castiel bends in half and jerks backward again, popping noises coming from his spine.

He stops.

It’s silent.

Chuck can’t even hear Castiel breathing.

Chuck realizes that’s because Castiel isn’t breathing.

Ruby leans over him with the curious face of a scholar puzzling out a problem.

Castiel sits up and Ruby jumps back slightly.

“Smile for me, lover.”

He does.

His fangs are white in the candlelight and razor sharp. His tongue darts out across them and he cuts it on the sharp edges.

Ruby claps her hands together gleefully and spins herself in a circle. “It worked, it worked, it worked,” she squeals happily.

She sounds like the rat did.

Castiel is turning his hands over, examining them like he’s never seen them before. He looks down at his body, then back at Ruby. In the time it takes Chuck to blink, Castiel is on his feet and looming. He seems taller, fiercer. Ruby leans back away from him as he towers over her, her eyes darting around quickly, checking for an escape route. She trembles slightly as if she’s just realized what she’s done. She’s turned an enemy into a predator, and now she’s trapped in a room with him. The air feels like sharp edges against Chuck’s skin.

Castiel’s eyes appear to glow in the dark, eerie blue and clear. Ruby’s fascinated with them, her own dark irises darting back and forth staring at them. Castiel grabs Ruby’s arms and she flinches. Ruby has a small dagger in her hands and she holds it up to Castiel.

“Cut your hand.”

He grabs it and slices the palm of his hand open easily. They both watch in fascination as the wound seals itself shut and his blood soaks back into his skin. Ruby claps her hands again and squeals, her earlier fear forgotten

Castiel throws the knife and it embeds itself unerringly in the window sill, its hilt vibrating slightly.

“Now, tell me how to heal him.”

***

It’s dark now. Castiel lost hours in Ruby’s lair.

Castiel has blood down the front of his shirt and the footmen stare at him in horror as he runs up the stairs. Ellen jumps up from the chair where she has been keeping vigil since Castiel left.

“Oh. Sweet Jesus, what have you done?” she whispers, her hands covering her lips.

“Leave.”

She makes the sign of the cross over herself as well and Chuck feels frantic laughter bubble up in his chest. If that gesture made a lick of difference, they wouldn't be in this mess. Castiel kneels beside the bed and carefully grabs Dean by his one good shoulder.

“Dean.”

Silence.

 _”Dean.”_

Chuck feels the power behind his voice. He sees Castiel’s eyes widen as he realizes it too. Dean’s eyelids flicker and then his lids open halfway. As before, his eyes find Castiel immediately. Dean’s eyes are cloudy and confused at first and then he sees the difference in his lover and they widen slightly.

He hasn’t enough breath to form sound and his lips barely move, but his words seem painfully clear enough.

 _What have you done?_

Castiel’s fingers tighten on Dean’s shoulder and tears start to fall from Castiel’s eyes.

“I had to. To save you. I can save you now. But I need you to tell me you want this. I need you to tell me…” His breath hitches.

 _What?_

Castiel pulls his lips back from his teeth and Dean sees the fangs. He blinks once, then again.

 _Ruby._

“Please. Please, I had to. I can’t… You can’t… Please, tell me yes. Say yes.”

He’s openly sobbing now, fat tears rolling down his cheek and landing on the bed. He drops his head to the mattress and his shoulders shake. As before, Dean cards his fingers through his hair, slower this time, even this small effort becoming too much. Castiel is begging Dean still, broken, half formed words of pleading being pushed out of his lips. Dean’s fingers tighten imperceptibly on Castiel’s dark hair and Castiel turns his bloodshot blue eyes back to Dean.

 _Yes._

Castiel leans forward quickly and places a fierce kiss on Dean’s lips. He pulls back and threads his fingers through Dean’s hair.

“I have to…,” he looks away, ashamed. “I have to drink from you.”

Dean closes his eyes and turns his head slightly, baring his neck as much as possible for him in his broken state. Castiel lowers his lips to Dean’s neck and places a rather chaste kiss on the skin, lips resting for a moment.

And then he _bites_.

Dean’s body stiffens in a natural response, and a moan of pain escapes his lips. Chuck can’t tell if it’s from the bite or if it’s from the rest of his body. Dean’s good hand comes up and cradles Castiel’s head, holding him close.

Finally, Chuck’s not sure how long it takes, Dean’s hand falls away from Castiel’s head, off the side of the mattress.

Minutes later, Castiel raises up, blood trailing down his chin. It’s pooled in the dip between Dean’s neck and shoulder, soaking the mattress through.

Castiel pulls his sleeve up, bites his own wrist and holds it over Dean’s lips, letting turgid globes of red drip past the parted skin. He waits.

Nothing happens.

Castiel waits longer.

Silence fills the room where there are no longer any sets of living lungs nor any living hearts beating. Just the dead and the undead.

Castiel bites at his wrist again, slashing open huge gaping wounds that leak black-red down his arm. He presses the bloody mess against Dean’s lips, smearing crimson across his sick-pale face.

He grabs Dean’s face harshly on either side and shakes him. He slaps him. He grips both shoulders, broken and unbroken and pulls him upright. His head lolls backward at a horrid angle, and his mouth falls open.

Dean is dead.

Castiel’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly and he jerks Dean toward him and holds him tightly. He sucks in air soundlessly and then screams.

***

They are back at Ruby’s and this time there’s murder in Castiel’s voice as he screams her name. He breaks down the door, throwing it aside like it’s made of paper. The butler gets pushed aside, falling on the floor with a thud and he scrambles backward and out of the way. At the top of the stairs, Ruby sees Castiel’s face and she starts back-peddling, her eyes wide and fearful.

“No! No you don’t understand! I had to!” she screams and she turns and starts running for her witchcraft room. She swivels her head to look behind her and doesn’t see Castiel and then she runs right into him.

Vampire quick now, he managed to get ahead of her and catch her. He’s got her cruelly by the arms and is squeezing.

“Ruby,” he breathes and Ruby shivers.

“No, you don’t understand. We couldn’t be together as long as he was alive. Don’t you see? So it had to be done, it _had to be done_!” She’s shrieking, high-pitched and off-key.

He drags her to her black alter and pushes her down on her knees. He grabs a fistful of her hair and twists painfully.

“Do you think any of them will come to your rescue now? Shall we wait to see who shows up to answer your begging?”

She’s clawing at his hands, nails raking down his skin leaving long trails that don’t even hurt him.

“But I did it for you, I did it for _us_. We can be together now, don’t you see? I’ll tell you how to turn me and I’ll tell you the truth this time and then we can always be together. _Please_ ”

He’s making soft shushing noises and stroking the side of her face, even as he grips her hair in a harsh fist.

“Promise me something,” he says softly.

“Yes! Anything, please, I’ll tell you how and we can be together. We’ll be unstoppable, you’ll see.”

He bends down and hisses in her ear, fangs out and flashing. “Promise me when you get to hell, you’ll never stop screaming.”

He snaps her neck before she can make another sound. She falls like a rag doll and he pushes her over in a graceless heap.

He pulls over the first candelabra he finds and it clatters to the floor. He takes the next one and sets fire to the banners hanging over the altar and then topples the entire altar onto its side, sending dark material flying everywhere. Black curtains hanging over every window blocking out the light catch flame easily and within minutes, the entire room is ablaze.

Castiel strides out of the room and down the stairs casually, stopping to speak to the wide-eyed butler who is gasping and stammering in shock at the front door.

“Your mistress is dead. I hope she burns for eternity.”

And that’s when Chuck wakes up.  



	10. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 10 - Concatenation

Dean doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up. It’s dark and it takes him a second to figure out where he is. His face is smashed into a pillow that smells like Cas, but… hmm.

Empty bed. And fuck it’s cold.

But he hears something. Something… crackling?

He looks up and sees Cas in a robe hunkered down in front of the fireplace. It’s funny how last night, at dinner he was _Castiel_ and now, after, he’s _Cas_. He’s got the beginnings of a meagre fire and as Dean watches, he gets it going quite well.

“Do they have boy scouts in England?” Dean asks.

Cas turns and in the firelight his profile is all sharp angles and shadows. He gets up and hurries back to bed, discarding the robe.

“As I said, we didn’t have central heating growing up. You get proficient at building a fire when you need it.” Castiel slides into bed and Dean can feel the cold seep in with him.

“You also said you used to take warm bricks to bed,” says Dean as they settle. “Where’s my brick? Your feet are fucking freezing.”

Castiel laughs as they tangle up. “I’m afraid I’m all out of bricks.” Castiel burrows his nose into Dean’s neck.

“Even your nose is cold,” Dean complains, pulling Cas closer. “Is it cold like this all the time?”

“Yes. I usually have the fire lit before I go to sleep but tonight I was… distracted,” he replies with a smile against Dean’s collarbone.

“Hmm. I should probably start sleeping over on a regular basis to make sure you’re okay. You know, big, dark, scary, cold house,” Dean jokes.

Castiel chuckles again, a low rumble out of his chest. “Are you offering your protection?”

Dean laughs too and the moment feels intimate and easy. He doesn’t even feel weird about it, which in itself should be… weird. He just feels happy and content.

Although it is cold as fuck.

He shivers and Castiel huffs in amusement. “You’ll not make a very good protector if you can’t manage to stop shivering.”

“Dude, it’s _cold_. How do you stand it?”

Castiel’s lips are soft against Dean’s skin as he speaks. “I’m used to it, I suppose. My entire existence has been like this.”

“Mmm-hmm,” replies Dean, trying to tuck his face under the blankets where it’s just starting to warm up. “All right, this is bullshit, let’s go.” Dean yanks back the covers and starts to slide out of bed.

Castiel frowns. “Go where?”

“Fireplace, move it.”

Castiel clambers after Dean and in the firelight they are just limbs and torsos, blankets and sheets, as Dean pulls the bedding down with them. Castiel grabs pillows and in a matter of frigid moments Dean manages to make them a sort of sleeping bag with bed clothes and then wraps them up together like a tortilla.

He snorts. A sexy tortilla.

It’s warmer right in front of the fireplace and with the heat of the flames wafting over them and Castiel draped slightly on top of him, Dean feels it start to sink into his skin with glorious precision. Each skin cell is blissfully ecstatic as it gets touched by heat and starts to share it with its neighbor.

“See? Totally warm now.”

“Yes, but we are sleeping on the floor,” says Castiel dryly. “It’s hardly an improvement.”

Dean pinches Castiel in a naughty place and Castiel gives a very unmanly yelp and then looks horrified at the sound he made.

They run lazy hands over one another, mapping out arms and legs, backs and chests, necks and skulls. Castiel watches him with a focus that is unswerving and single-minded and Dean feels the weight of his gaze.

It feels safe and familiar.

Castiel slides on top of him and Dean sighs at the sensation. Castiel’s lips are working their way across his neck and collarbone and Dean tips his head down and buries his nose in Castiel’s thick hair. He smells masculine and slightly soapy, and maybe just a little bit like pears or some kind of fruit.

They’re rocking their hips together, cocks rubbing alongside, hipbones knocking every so often with a soft thud that sends shivers up Dean’s spine. Dean can’t decide on a place to put his hands; each spot feels perfect and he can’t pick one to set them and hold on. The room is filled with breathy moans and hitching sighs and then the slightly wet sound of lips and tongues tangling.

It’s like a slow moving train, gaining speed leisurely, pistons working casually, gradually at first, and then, steadily, the tempo increases. The wheels spin faster, the coil springs move up and down and inevitably what was a lazy metal sleeping giant becomes an impressive force of physics, able to plow forward at dizzying speeds.

Dean’s so fucking glad he’s on that train.

Their hips grind against each other and it feels painfully good. He’s never fallen into such a perfect rhythm so fast with anyone and it feels fantastic. All he can hear is the crazy thudding of his own heart and Castiel’s strong breathing in his ear.

And then Cas’ voice.

“Dean… please…”

Whatever it is, Dean fucking _wants_ to give it to him, he doesn’t care.

It should scare him how willing he is to agree, how quickly he would say yes to whatever Castiel asks. But all he feels is a delicious thrill at not knowing what he’s agreeing to.

“Yes,” he moans, thrusting his hips up harding. “Anything.”

Cas straddles Dean’s hips with his legs and shifts forward slightly. Without words, Dean knows what Cas is asking for and he’s more than willing to comply. Castiel doesn’t seem to be willing to wait and Dean is scrambling madly with his arms stretched up behind him trying to find where his pants fell to the floor earlier. Even in their heated moment, they both afford a chuckle when Dean has to buck upwards to get an extra inch of leverage to snag his slacks and the motion nearly topples Castiel off his perch on Dean’s hips.

Dean gets the lube out of his pants pocket and has a split-second flashback to earlier in the evening when he had a quick debate about whether or not he should bring it. Their movements are frantic and hurried and they could probably drag it out and enjoy it more, should probably drag it out to enjoy it more but all Dean can think is they’ve got plenty of time to do just about anything they want so if they’re a little rushed this time, their first time, they can make up for it later.

He’s really looking forward to a lot of ‘laters.’

Cas sinks down onto Dean’s cock and Dean clenches his jaw and tries to control his breathing to keep from coming _right the fuck now_. Cas pauses, waiting for Dean to open his eyes and look back up and when he does and their eyes meet, Castiel leans forward and kisses him soundly, lips and tongue pressing hard against Dean as he starts to move his hips with hard thrusts that push Dean so deep little moans escape his throat unbidden.

Dean’s hands grab Cas’ hips and leave pink and white pressure marks. He drags one hand across Cas’ pelvis and downward, trapping Cas’ dick between the palm of his hand and his own stomach. Cas rocks back and forth, each thrust bringing gasps of breath and grunts of pleasure from both of them. Dean starts to fist Cas, matching the rhythm, going faster when Cas speeds up, harder when Cas pushes against him harder. In minutes their both gulping for air, broken sentences spilling from their lips with only the words _yes, more, please, Cas, Dean_ comprehendible.

Cas’ fingers are digging into Dean’s biceps, his fingernails scratching over his chest and Dean grips him harder, jerks his hips up fiercely against Cas’ thrusts.

Cas comes thick and hard across Dean’s stomach and Dean slicks some of the wetness onto his hand quickly and keeps stroking Cas as his hips stutter and falter. Dean can feel Cas convulsing around him and only manages a few hard thrusts before his back arches and he’s coming inside Cas, fingers leaving deep impressions in Cas’ hip.

Dean’s body relaxes, and Cas rocks his hips against Dean a few more times, a pleasurable moan of contentment escaping his throat. Cas’ hands are splayed across Dean’s chest and Dean reaches his hand up and around Cas’ neck and yanks him down for a slow, deep kiss. Cas sags against him, pliant and loose and Dean lazily drags his hand down Cas’ back, over the swell of his ass and back up again. Dean is loathe to give this up just yet, Cas on top of him, straddling him, kissing him, but Dean’s soft cock is slowly starting to slip out. Cas shifts, Dean slides out and they roll around for a few minutes trying to rearrange blankets and pillows. Dean finds Castiel’s ripped shirt on the floor and they use it as a make-shift towel as much as they can. Dean feels giddy, he and Castiel grinning at each other like they are fifteen years old and have just discovered something new and exciting. They are grabby and touchy, running fingers wherever they want to, wherever they can reach. They end up on their sides, Castiel in between Dean and the fireplace. Dean’s tucked up as close as he can get, arm snaking around Cas’ waist and coming up to rest on Cas’ shoulder. Cas grabs his hand and places a few quick kisses on the pads of Dean’s fingers and Dean smiles against the back of Cas’ neck, lips curling and making the fine hair at the base of Cas’ head tingle and send a shiver down his spine.

“I think,” says Dean suddenly, not even realizing he was about to speak, “this is the happiest I’ve been in a long time.”

He feels Cas lips curve against his fingertips and then Cas presses another kiss to them. “Me too.”

***

Dean wakes the next morning and realizes one very important thing.

He is not eighteen anymore and sleeping on the floor is painful.

He’s still curled on his side around Castiel, and while that in itself is quite nice, the pressure points of hard floor against shoulder, hip and knee are not. He untangles himself from Cas, being careful with his movement so as not to wake the other man. Castiel doesn’t stir as Dean rolls himself over onto his back and stretches.

He’s pleasantly tired. The kind of tired you get from having a great night, where you aren’t in a bad mood the next day, but instead wear a secret smile that tends to get wider when people comment that you look like you didn’t get enough sleep.

He definitely didn’t get enough sleep.

He rolls away from Castiel and finds Cas’ discarded bathrobe from the night before in a dark pile on the floor. He grabs it and slides it on and if he takes a moment to sniff the soft fabric and pick up the scent of Cas, well no one’s the wiser but him.

After a quick stop off at the bathroom he heads over to the heavily draped window. A dim halo of sunlight is peeking its way around the heavy curtains and Dean’s surprised when he glances over at the old fashioned clock on the nightstand and sees that it’s nearly ten in the morning. He pulls back the curtains slightly and squints at the bright light. It’s already a beautiful day, bright and sunny, everything rain-wet and shiny from the storm the night before. He manages to unhinge the old lock on the window and crack it open, letting in a rush of fresh damp air that’s not yet warmed by the morning sun. It smells clean and moist, like greenery and grass.

He needs some coffee.

He bets Cas has really great coffee. Coffee that perhaps he would have sampled after dessert last night if they hadn’t moved onto other activities. Although if it came to a choice, he’d take sex over coffee any day of the week.

Well, sex with Cas. Because really, he’s had bad sex and he’d prefer the coffee.

Deciding to wake Cas up and find out the state of his coffee, he throws the curtains all the way open, letting in the sun.

He hears a sharp hiss of surprise and he turns quickly to see Castiel diving underneath the covers. Beams of sunlight are cutting across the dark room, dust sparking in the long streams.

Cas is tucked under the bedclothes and with a frown Dean steps over.

“Cas?”

“The sun… I… I can’t…”

Dean totally forgot what Ben had said. Cas is allergic to the sun.

“Oh shit,” says Dean quickly as he jumps up and yanks the curtains closed. “I’m sorry. Ben mentioned that you have an allergy and I … I didn’t think.”

He comes back over to the lump of blankets and kneels, his hand hovering nervously, not sure if he should touch or not.

“Are you… Did I… I’ve closed the curtains now.”

“It’s fine. I will be fine.”

 _Fuck_. Dean has really messed up. “Should I… Do you have any medication or anything? Or I could call my brother…”

His voice trails off, unsure what else he can do. Finally after a few more seconds. Cas pokes his head out from under the blankets.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks.

Cas’ eyes dart over to the curtains to ensure they are closed. “Yes, I apologize. I’m fine. I do have a tolerance for it somewhat but… when I am…” _unconscious, dead to the world_ “sleeping… or the sun is very bright…” _and I haven’t fed in twelve hours_ , “I am slightly more sensitive. I forgot to tell you. It’s not something that usually comes up.”

“No, I’m sorry. Ben told me and I just totally forgot. But you’re okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine. Most of the glass in the house is darker but… I like to look out the window at night so I didn’t have them change this room. But I assure you, I am fine.”

“I can call Sam?” Dean hedges. “I know he would come over or we could… oh, I guess you can’t go out.”

“I could,” Castiel ventures. “Once I have,” _fed_ , “taken my medication.” Castiel gives a wan smile. “But this is hardly the conversation I wished to have. Instead I was rather hoping we could have breakfast.”

Dean smiles. “Yeah? Yeah, okay.” He stands and gestures down at himself. “I, uh, kinda liberated your robe.”

“It looks good on you. Though it looks better off you.”

Hearing Castiel say something like with his cultured voice makes Dean simultaneously blush and snort a laugh at the same time. Castiel stands with no attempt at modesty and because he’s so relaxed and nonchalant about it, Dean finds that it’s not strange at all. Cas pulls out a similar robe in dark brown from his armoire. As Dean looks down at the one he is wearing, which is a deep burgundy, he has the fleeting thought that it’s the wrong color.

“Is something wrong?” asks Castiel as he adjusts the cuff of one sleeve.

Dean pulls at the robe. “No, I…” he shakes his head. “It’s weird but I think I used to have something like this, but in blue?” He frowns. “I don’t know when though. Or where I would have bought something like this. Or what happened to it.” He looks back up at Castiel to find him staring at Dean intently.

“Perhaps you lost it.”

“Yeah. I feel like maybe I did.”

***

Breakfast is a simple matter of left over pie and coffee.

And tea.

Castiel drinks loose leaf tea and Dean’s not even surprised.

“Breakfast of champions,” Dean snorts as he digs into a large slice of Rufus’ pie. Castiel smiles at his joke and absently picks at his own slice.

Dean was right, Cas has _awesome_ coffee. The power was restored at some point in the evening and Cas ground the beans fresh and boiled water for the French press. Dean had never had coffee from a press before, didn’t even know such a thing existed, but after the first exquisitely sharp taste, he’s never going back.

Cas is sipping at his tea, blowing air across the meniscus automatically before taking a sip. He watches as Dean tucks into his pie.

“Dude, aren’t you starving?”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “Do you mean after all our activity last night?”

“Hell, yeah,” Dean exclaims with a chuckle and shoves another forkful of lemon custard into his mouth. Castiel smiles at Dean’s exuberance.

“I’m afraid I’m not much for solids in the morning.” He pushes his plate away a little. “I will have something later.”

“Um, it’s not… I mean you aren’t sick or anything because of the sun…”

“Pardon? No, not at all,” Castiel says easily and then leans forward and places his hand over Dean’s. “I am simply not much of a morning person.”

Castiel’s fingers are cool against Dean’s skin and Dean turns his hand over and squeezes them for a quick second in his own.

The both give a start slightly at a light rap at the back door that leads from the kitchen out to the garden courtyard. Frowning slightly Castiel stands and makes his way to the door. Dean panics for a moment when he opens it, afraid that sunlight will come in and … fuck he’s not even sure what would happen, but then he remembers that the back of the house faces north and the sun won’t be a problem.

“Hello Benjamin,” Castiel says easily, his face directed down at Ben who is shuffling back and forth on his feet.

“Hi, Mr. Collins,” Ben says in the overly loud voice of the young.

“Ben?” calls Dean, turned around in his chair. “What are you doing here?”

Ben’s face clearly says that he’s surprised to see Dean and Dean quickly realizes that it’s the morning, he’s in Castiel’s kitchen, in Castiel’s robe.

Oops.

“Would you like some pie?” Castiel asks Ben, seemingly unaffected by the situation they are in.

“Now?” asks Ben unbelievingly.

“Yes, Dean and I were having some but I’m afraid I don’t much feel like it. You may have my piece if you like.”

“For breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Awesome!”

Ben blasts into the kitchen and takes Castiel’s seat at the table and starts shoveling pie into his mouth.

“Is this from Rufus?”

“Yes,” intones Castiel as he places a glass of water down in front of Ben. Castiel leans against the counter easily. “So, Benjamin, what brings you here this morning?”

Ben looks from Castiel to Dean and back to Castiel. He swallows his pie. “Uh, I got a message for you?” he says nervously, eyes darting over to Dean.

“From whom?” asks Castiel.

“Um, from Sarah?”

“Ben,” begins Dean. “Mr. Shurley told me about your imaginary friend. But if you’re bothering Cas, I mean, Mr. Collins with this stuff…”

“She’s not imaginary!” Ben says loudly. “She’s real.”

Dean purses his lips, his eyebrows clearly saying ‘Oh really?’

“She _is_ ,” Ben protests hotly.

“Then how come no one else sees her?” asks Dean.

“Because she’s dead!”

“What?”

“She’s not imaginary, she’s a ghost.”

He’ll give the kid points for originality. “Ben…”

“It’s true!”

Dean doesn’t know what to make of this. Is this cause for concern? Is it a phase that kids go through? Should he mention it to Pamela? He opens his mouth to say something when Castiel speaks first.

“It’s all right, Dean. Ben hasn’t been bothering me at all. I asked him one day whom he was speaking to and he told me about Sarah. I was very interested so I asked him to tell me more.”

Ben gives Dean such a familiar ‘I-told-you’ look, such a _Dean_ look that Dean almost laughs.

Almost.

“Now, Benjamin. What is the message?” Castiel’s voice is low and smooth as he speaks.

“She said…” he screws his face up like he’s trying to remember. “She made me say it a lot to remember ‘cause it doesn’t make sense. She said ‘Faust is a work of fiction, and no one can claim to have made a deal with the devil. Although, agreements were made and lives altered. But for grace go many. Do not fear the past. Those who own it do not repeat it.’”

Ben’s shoulders sag happily as he deems his message delivered and he plows into the pie, task over and forgotten.

Dean stares at him, nausea coiling in his stomach. He suddenly fears that this is not just some phase Ben is going through, that maybe Ben is sick or troubled beyond Dean’s knowledge or help. But he’s never seen anything like this from him before. He ransacks his brain trying to think if anything else has been off about him lately and comes up with nothing. He glances over to see if Castiel has an opinion or a thought on it.

Castiel, normally fair-skinned, has gone sick-pale. His brow is furrowed deeply and he is staring at Ben like Ben is some kind of omen.

Or harbinger.

“Thank you, Benjamin. If you see Sarah again, please thank her as well.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Collins,” says Ben, his mouth full of the final bites of pie. “I gotta go, Pamela’s taking me for new shoes. Bye!” He scampers off his chair and out the back door before either of the men can say anything.

“What the fuck?” Dean exclaims. “Is this something I should be worried about? Does he say shit like that all the time?”

Castiel shakes his head absently. “No. That is the first time he has… he’s never had a message before.”

“Chuck said you talked to him about Sarah before. What did Ben say?”

Castiel shrugs as he takes Ben’s vacated chair. “They play in the woods. They find rocks and sticks. Cubby holes to hide in. They hide treasures. I gave him a copy of _Swiss Family Robinson_ and told him to share it with her. That is all.”

Dean mistakes Castiel’s disquiet for concern for Benjamin.

“Where did he get that? Those words?” asks Dean.

Castiel shrugs again, one shoulder lifting gracefully and falling. “I do not know,” he lies easily.

Castiel knows very well that the ghost of sister Sarah has become friends with young Benjamin Collins, and although Castiel has not seen Sarah himself, he has no doubt of her existence. He hopes that Sarah will come to him someday, as she comes to visit Ben, and speak with him as freely as she does with the young boy.

He’s often wondered if she does not or can not because Castiel damned himself when he made his deal with Ruby.

A tiny spark of hope flares up at the memory of Ben’s message. Perhaps he is not damned, if Sarah’s message is to be believed.

Perhaps there is redemption for him yet.

Dean’s voice pulls him out of his reverie.

“I’m gonna ask Sam. Maybe one of his co-workers will know if it’s something to be worried about.”

Castiel nods as he sips his tea. It’s gone cold.


	11. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 11 - Interlude

Ben’s super proud of himself.

He totally got all the words in the message right, he knows it.

Back from shoe shopping with Pamela and wearing a new pair of sneakers that are _so cool_ but need to be scuffed up before he dares wear them to school, he races through the forest behind Collinwood to the big tree stump where he and Sarah always meet.

She’s sitting against the wooden stump with her knees drawn up reading _Swiss Family Robinson_.

“Hello, Ben!” she says brightly. She carefully wraps the book back in the ziploc baggie Ben brought for it.

Sarah had thought it was the best invention she had ever heard of.

“Hey Sarah. New shoes!” he exclaims and hops on one leg as he shows off his high tops.

“These are the shoes that are good for sports, correct?”

“Yup,” he beams, happy she remembered.

“They are very intricate. I have not seen their like.”

He takes that to mean she thinks they are cool too.

“Did you speak to my brother?”

“Sure did. Gave him the message and got it all right.”

She breathes a sigh of relief and smiles. “Thank you, Ben. That means a great deal to me.”

Ben shrugs and picks up a stick and starts poking a rock with it. “Sure. No problem. Still can’t talk to him yourself, huh?”

She shakes her head, red braids swaying slightly. “No. I’ve tried but he doesn’t see me. I’m not sure why. Once I thought… I thought he might know I was there, but…” she shrugs herself, a gesture she learned from Ben.

“Shitty.”

She chuckles at his word. Sarah’s older than him but she never makes him feel like a baby or dumb. But she does think it’s funny when he cusses.

“What didja do while I was gone?” Ben asks, flipping over the rock with his stick and finding a treasure trove of dark bugs underneath.

Sarah leans over and peers at the insects. “I was here for a bit and then I went back.”

“Back long ago?”

“Yes.”

Sarah had a hard time explaining it at first because she didn’t quite know where she went. She didn’t realize the difference between ‘now’ and ‘then.’ Ben had pestered her mercilessly, asking non-stop questions until he finally figured it out.

Sarah could go backward in time.

Ben had figured it out when Sarah explained that where she went there were horses and carriages, and Collinwood was brand new.

What Ben couldn’t figure was why. Why she could go back, why she _would_ go back.

Ben only knows that Sarah is Mr. Collins’ sister and Mr. Collins lives at Collinwood and seems like he’s Dean’s age. He has no idea that Mr. Collins is over two hundred years old and that Sarah was born just after the turn of the 18th century.

He frankly wouldn’t care.

All he knows is that Sarah is his friend. Sarah is older than him. Sarah is fun.

Sarah can time-travel.

It pretty much makes her the coolest girl ever.

Maybe even cooler than April, who’s kind of his girlfriend. But just by a little bit. And he would never tell April that.

“What didja do back there?”

“I just like to look around, see people, things.”

“I like looking around at stuff too. Hey, wanna go down to the cliffs?”

“Okay.”

***

One of the cooks had to take his cat into the vet, so Dean is pulling emergency duty in the kitchen.

He likes being in the kitchen. He likes chopping stuff and prepping things and putting them all in their places for later. It’s early afternoon, after the lunch rush but before the dinner crowd, so he’s happy to take the time to work through the lull and stock up.

He’d received the call shortly after he had finished his pie, right after Ben had delivered his creepy message, and frankly, he was glad for the distraction.

Although he’d been sorry to leave Cas. But he’d pretty much invited himself back over telling Cas that he had to run out and help cover kitchen until Ash finished up at the vet, or until Andy showed for the evening shift. Then he had sort of babbled about how Andy could double as a waiter or kitchen staff whenever needed and he thinks he might have started rambling on about Ash’s cat too when Castiel had silenced him with a kiss and told him he looked forward to seeing him when Dean was finished.

So a quick run home for a shower and a change of clothes and now Dean’s rhythmically chopping onions, tomatoes and green peppers in the kitchen. He wipes his hand on his apron and grabs another flat of tomatoes. He enjoys the routine work.

He could do without the heat in the kitchen. Grills, burners, ovens, friers and dishwasher all combining to create a hot, smelly atmosphere that’s even more moist than a Maine summer.

“Oh, thank god, you’re _alive_.”

Dean looks up to see Sam letting himself in through the swinging doors that block the front of the pub from the kitchen. Sam is clutching his heart dramatically and wiping a pretend tear from his eye.

“The sleepless nights. The worry. Raising a big brother is _hard_.”

“Samantha,” Dean intones dryly, not pausing in his chopping work.

“You look tired.” Sam raises an eyebrow suggestively. “Didn’t get much sleep last night?”

“Are you just going on shift or getting off?” Dean replies, ignoring his brother’s question.

“Getting off. And I would guess that I’m not the only Winchester with that claim to fame today.” He waggles both eyebrows this time and Dean throws a dishcloth at him.

“You eat yet?” Dean asks.

“Naw. That’s why I come here. Feed me.” Sam rolls back one of the silver lids that covers the pizza toppings and digs into some pepperoni.

“That’s for the customers who pay. You remember what that entails, right? An actual exchange of cash between proprietor and eater?”

Sam shoves more pepperoni into his mouth. “Dude, I’m like quality control. Someone’s gotta check this stuff.” He pulls up a couple of milk crates, stacks them and has a seat on the makeshift chair.

“You want a pizza or something?” Dean asks, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Maybe some fries and a burger?”

Dean nods and uses his tongs to grab a pre-made patty from the fridge and toss it down on the grill. In the practiced move of someone who works in the kitchen a lot, he manages to get a bun toasting on the edge of the grill and start some fries at the same time.

It’s a time honored tradition. Big brother feeding little brother. If asked, neither would say that’s what it is, but… that’s what it is.

Dean goes back to chopping methodically. In the silence, Sam leans forward once and then once again so he’s in Dean’s line of sight.

Dean flicks his eyes at him quickly and then back to his work. “What?”

“Oh, I get it, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, is that it?”

“Shut up,” Dean replies gruffly but Sam can see a faint flush creep up his neck.

“Jackpot,” Sam says gleefully, tossing back some shredded mozzarella. Dean slaps the back of Sam’s hand with the wide blade of the knife, like a teacher smacking a student with a ruler.

“Again, for the paying customers.”

“Again, quality control. It’s extra official since I’m a professional.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Professional eater. Seriously, either one or both of your legs is hollow. You should check that out, Dr. Winchester.”

“Quit changing the subject. So, sleep over at Castiel Collins’ house last night?”

“None of your business.”

“Dean,” Sam starts. “You didn’t come home. It’s obvious you stayed over. Are you blushing again?”

“Shut up,” Dean says again.

Sam laughs as Dean flips the burger over and presses the patty flat. He raises an eyebrow at Sam in an unspoken question, _cheese?_ Sam nods and Dean slaps down a slice of cheddar, covering it with a lid from a stray pot to help it along with melting.

“So, I take it that means there will be a second date in your future?”

Dean shrugs and mumbles something as he turns away from Sam to grab a take-out container for Sam’s meal.

“Oh, sorry, what? I didn’t quite catch that?” Sam teases.

“I _said_ I’m going over there tonight.” Deans teeth are clenched.

“You remember what I told you right? He’s never gonna marry the cow if he’s milking you for free.”

Dean tosses a very ripe tomato at him and it bounces off Sam’s chest, splits and lands on the floor with a squish.

“Occupational health and safety, dude. That’s a hazard,” Sam points down at the tomato, barely able to restrain his laughter.

Dean can’t help but laugh too. “Bitch,” he says easily, shaking his head as he pulls the fries out of the oil and spices them. He slides the fries easily into the foil container, assembles the cheeseburger and places the lid, fingers flying over as he seals up the container by spinning it and pressing down. He’s done it a thousand times and doesn’t even realize how quick his movements are.

“Your dinner, majesty,” he deadpans as he pushes the container across the counter to Sam.

Sam grabs it easily. “Thanks, man. So I guess I won’t send out the search party tonight?”

“Not tonight, Samantha. Think you can handle sleeping alone, in the dark, by yourself, or should I go dig out your old blankie before I go to Cas’?”

“Oh, so it’s Cas now is it?” Sam’s lips turn in an expression indicating he’s impressed. “Or maybe you call him lover-boy?”

“Get out of here,” Dean says with a chuckle as Sam ducks out the back door. “And don’t forget to put out the garbage! It’s trash day tomorrow,” he calls out to the closed door and then shakes his head.

***

With Dean gone, Castiel can take the time to eat something. Or drink, more accurately.

He can’t say he likes it. He’s never liked it. He never wanted to like it. It is simply something that needs to be done.

Sometimes he can eat ( _feed_ ) and not think of it at all. Like a mindless employee eating at his desk while working. Sustenance goes in, but it’s not noticed or remarked on by the brain. It’s just a means to an end, a way to fuel the body so that more work can be done. Castiel prefers those types of meals ( _feedings_ ) and he can usually have them if he sticks to a regular schedule and doesn’t wait until he is too hungry ( _ravenous_ ) to eat ( _feed_ ).

Other times he feels like an animal. It bothers him that his salivary glands flood when he smells blood, making his mouth water, and sometimes he gets a sharp pang under his tongue, reminiscent of when he used to smell vinegar as a mortal. It bothers him when he is so hungry that as soon as the first red drop touches his tongue he wants to moan in relief and satisfaction. It bothers him that sometimes after he’s had what he’s portioned out to himself he thinks about drinking more. Licking the wound if he was feeding from a human.

Now with Charles’ idea of the blood bank, he doesn’t have to feed from mortals anymore. His mind, his conscience, prefers the sterile plastic bags with their bar codes and labels, and the cold, packaged blood with its slightly processed taste, even if his hunger does not appreciate the idea of dinner presented like slop at trough.

Sometimes he thinks of his hunger, his otherness, his vampirism, like a separate being. There is himself, as he was, mortal, and then there is the beast superimposed on top. Locked in his tomb for years he slept off and on, time rolling by in the background unable to be counted or marked. He had ample time to think on his nature. Sometimes he was convinced he _was_ two separate creatures. And other times he was just as convinced that the beast had always been a part of him, sleeping, waiting, until Ruby’s dark magic woke the slumbering giant. And still other times he feels as though the creature has merged so completely with his soul that he does not know where he ends and it begins.

If either ends or begins.

He’s been a monster for longer than he was ever human.

The thought weighs on him.

He wonders, he hopes, that it is like being an immigrant. Though he’s been in his new homeland for longer than his birthplace, he will always consider his birthplace home.

He does not like to consider the alternative.

Sarah’s message, delivered through Ben, is on his mind. He had always considered his deal, his bargain, with Ruby to be a deal with the devil. Not that he believed Ruby was anything more than a witch, and a mad one at that. But he thought, more often than not, that something had been channelled through her. Something had made her fixate on him and in turn enabled the deal to be made and in that deal, secured his soul.

But now Sarah’s message. __

_No one can claim to have made a deal with the devil._

Does that mean there is hope for him yet? He wants to believe in that.

 _Do not fear the past. Those who own it do not repeat it._

What does it mean? To own his past? Does it mean not to fear the beast? Not to fear the hunger?

Does it mean he must tell Dean what he is?

The idea makes him ill. They’ve just started. They’ve just begun again what was ended years before. And although, in the past, Dean did not flinch when he found out the truth, he was dying. In pain and on opiates how much did he comprehend of what Castiel showed him?

How much of the monster did he understand?

How much of the monster could he understand?

How much would he want to understand?

Part of him doesn’t want to tell Dean simply because when they are together, he can almost forget about the animal he has become. The night before with Dean, dinner and then after… he didn’t feel like a savage. He didn’t feel unnatural or horrific.

He felt… happy.

So happy.

It’s like his brain simply could not hold all the happiness that being with Dean made him feel, and so he had not remembered what it was like. And having that feeling back again last night…

It scares him to think what he would do to hold onto it. Or what he wouldn’t do to hold onto it.

But he doesn’t know how to keep a secret like this from Dean. If they continue on, if they fit back into what they were, how can he hide his nature? How can he continue to lie, to deceive, to _betray_ ad infinitum? How long until Dean notices that he doesn’t get sick, doesn’t need to eat?

Doesn’t age?

When he thinks of not aging, he is struck with horrible panic. He cannot watch Dean die again.

But to inflict this monstrosity on him… he didn’t know what he was offering before. He only saw it as a solution to the immediate problem of Dean dying. He knows now the horror of the gift that is also a curse.

And so the struggle continues. He cannot tell Dean, he cannot lie to Dean. He cannot watch Dean die, he cannot turn Dean.

There must be an alternative.

He’s afraid to look. Afraid to look and find nothing. Until now, it has been easier to not look and pretend that the answer may be out there somewhere, waiting.

But now, with Dean…

It will entail research, he supposes. Immersing himself in the horror that was Ruby’s life. What she knew, how she knew it, where she learned, from whom she learned it.

The idea is distasteful to say the least, but infinitely more appealing to the alternatives of turning Dean or watching him die again.

So research it is.

He wonders how far down the rabbit hole he will have to travel. He wonders if any more pieces of his soul will have to be paid out along the way.


	12. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 12 - Chuck Shurley, Vampire BFF

It’s not that Chuck misses being a walking restaurant for a vampire. It really isn’t.

Okay, maybe it is. Just a little. But it’s not what you think.

He knows it’s creepy and sick. Weird and unnatural.

But he’d kind of gotten used to it.

If you had asked him, he would have sworn he hated it. And he did. He _does_.

It’s just that he misses it. Just a little. Way in the back of his brain where no one peeks in and no thoughts are ever gonna escape out of.

And maybe, just maybe he misses the post-feeding talks. Well, Castiel would talk and Chuck would just listen but whatever. He misses it. It was… special. It made him feel special

He sort of liked being special.

In some ways he still is. He’s still the only one that knows Castiel’s true nature. But it’s not the same.

He’s not jealous of Dean. He really isn’t. It isn’t like that. What Dean has with Castiel is nothing like what Chuck had. He doesn’t think of Castiel that way. God, no. That would be… well, weird wouldn’t even start to cover it. And he’s not envious either because he doesn’t want what Dean and Castiel have together.

Plus he’s kinda got his own thing going on with Becky. They had dinner the other night and when she found out how much he did for Castiel, she seemed really impressed. She seems to like him and he likes her and it’s new and scary.

But he does like being around Castiel, his commanding but quiet presence. When Chuck’s around him, he feels like he doesn’t have to worry about anything. It will all be taken care of. _He’ll_ be taken care of. And that’s nice.

So when Castiel calls him, when Chuck feels the steady pull against his brain, the sensation inside his skull that means _come here come here come here_ he literally drops what he is doing, dishes breaking in the sink with the force of the fall, and leaves for Collinwood.

It’s mid-afternoon, coming on early evening, the time of day when people are leaving one place and heading to another, trying to get everything they want accomplished in one day finished.

It’s sunny, so Castiel won’t be out.

He’s been doing pretty well on the blood bank supplies, Chuck thinks. Not that they talk about it or anything, but he doesn’t appear to _not_ be doing well, so the absence of a bad reaction must be considered a good one.

He rushes up the front steps and raps quickly on the door. It swings open, seemingly of its own free will, but as Chuck steps inside and allows his eyes to adjust to the dim light, he sees Castiel standing behind the door.

“Charles.”

“I came as soon as you called.”

“Of course you did. Thank you.”

The door shuts behind him and they are left in the partial light that the treated glass windows let in.

Chuck doesn’t say anything as Castiel leads his way to the study, down the long hallway, just before the entrance to the kitchen. He waits for Castiel to take a seat in one of the large chairs in front of the fireplace and he happily takes a perch on one of the ottomans, hitching it just a little bit closer to Castiel’s chair.

“What can I do for you?”

“I have been thinking.”

Chuck nods and patiently waits for Castiel to continue.

“Do you know how I came to be the creature that I am?”

Chuck nods a bit slower this time, casting his eyes downward for a moment. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I… had a… dream. I saw you and Dean. And a woman… a witch… Ruby.”

“Yes. Ruby.” Castiel’s voice has gone cold, the low, frigid tone that he hardly ever uses around Chuck anymore.

“And Dean… well… I saw him die,” Chuck finishes quietly.

“You saw me kill him,” says Castiel. His voice has a strange calmness to it. It’s not a comforting tone.

“Yes, I mean no. I mean… I saw what you did. I saw what you were trying to do. It wasn’t your fault.” Chuck’s eyes are large, sympathetic pools as he looks up at Castiel. Castiel’s gaze is shuttered. Chuck could be discussing the weather for all the emotion Castiel is showing.

“I was a fool to trust Ruby. To even consider that I could make a bargain with her.”

“She betrayed you. It wasn’t your fault,” Chuck repeats.

Castiel’s eyes make Chuck’s heart rabbit beat. “I knew what she wanted. I knew what she was. I made a deal anyway. The only surprise was that I was foolish enough to trust her.”

“Well,” says Chuck quietly. “You wanted to believe her. You were desperate. She counted on that.”

“She orchestrated everything, did she not?” Castiel asks, blue irises searching Chuck.

Chuck bobs his head. “Yes. She was responsible for the accident.”

It’s Castiel’s turn to nod. “I had thought so, but had no way to confirm. But,” he says taking in a cleansing breath. “That is not why I called you here. I require assistance.”

Chuck’s chest swells with pride at the sentence. “Of course, yeah. What do you need?”

“Aside from myself, you alone know how I came to be what I am.”

Castiel pauses as though he’s afraid of what he will say next.

“I want you to help me find a way to undo it.”

“Is that… I mean, you must think it’s possible or you wouldn’t ask, but…”

“I don’t know that it is possible. I hope that it is.”

“I’ll do whatever I can, you know I will. Where would you like me to start?”

“Ruby. I need you to do some research on Ruby. I can give you the names of her immediate family, perhaps some of her acquaintances. But I would like you to go through the city records and find out what you can. Find out what happened to her belongings after she died. At the time I simply did not care, but if it’s possible to trace her things… that would be the best place to start.”

Chuck nods. “Uh, yeah,” he says, mind turning over, wondering how in the hell he’s going to be able to do all this. “I can start that, for sure.”

“I would like to start researching myself, so I would like you to purchase me a computer and then instruct me in how to use the internet.”

Chuck blinks. This conversation is suddenly feeling quite surreal.

“And if I am to be able to purchase things, I will need a credit card.” Castiel says the word slowly, mouth forming around the foreign sounds. “This can be obtained through the bank, correct?”

“Yeah, uh, normally you have to go to them and set stuff up, but you probably have enough money that they’ll come to you. I can find out.”

“Excellent.”

“You don’t… I mean, you don’t want to be a vampire?” the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “It’s just… immortality and strength. Power.”

“I am an abomination of nature. The power and strength,” he waves his hand dismissively. “These are trivial things. They mean nothing. Immortality is… something I would not wish on an enemy. It’s a never ending slog toward a future where everyone you love, everything you know, falls away exhausted by the journey and you’re left alone, marching, watching the past rot behind you.”

“Oh, I… oh,” breathes Chuck lamely. “I thought… I thought maybe… because you’re so powerful, and my whole life I’ve just been Chuck Shurley, and no one really notices me, but people notice you. They want to be noticed by you and that’s… I never had that.”

Castiel pauses to considers his words. He doesn’t dismiss them immediately out of hand and Chuck feels surer about speaking out.

“I cannot ever be sure if people notice me or if they are noticing my otherness. Occasionally, people are drawn to my power, and I have struggled with remembering that they do not know me. They know nothing of me, and yet they will fall at my feet. It can be… misleading. And this ability came at a terribly price.”

“Do you think… do you think you can go back to normal?” Chuck waves his hands around. “I mean, separate from a cure.”

“It is a question I have asked myself many times. Can I go back, or will the knowledge of what I can become hang over me? I long for normalcy. I long for the simple things that other people do not even notice. The need to purchase food, the need for sleep. Above all, I do not wish to be alone. The very nature of what I am is a solitary creature. How can I ever truly have friends, family, a lover, if I am immortal and separate from everyone?”

Chuck fiddles with a stray thread from his jeans. “Yeah, I can understand that. I mean, obviously I’m not… because like I said, I’m just Chuck. Chuck Shurley, but… I… you’ve been really lonely for a long time. Haven’t you?” he gushes.

“Yes. I have.”

Chuck squares his shoulders. “Okay then. Let’s find a cure.”


	13. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 13 - That Secret That You Know

Dean’s stupid tired.

Ash never made it to work. His cat, Gigabyte, needed emergency surgery to remove a hairball and Ash had explained it all in painful detail to Dean over the phone, despite Dean’s vehement protestations that he just _did not_ need to know the details.

And then Andy had shown up and Dean thought he could escape but Flannigan’s two streets over lost their cable signal and it was like the Exodus; all the customers pulled up stakes and showed up at Dean’s pub to watch the game.

And they wanted wings.

Lots of wings.

Jesus if he never sees another chicken wing again it will be too soon.

He stumbles up the walkway to Cas’ front door. It’s ridiculously late, but somehow he knows Cas won't mind; he’ll be up, waiting.

Waiting for Dean.

It makes Dean absurdly happy and cancels out most of his fear that he smells strongly of Buffalo hot sauce.

The front light is on and he wears an idiotic grin knowing it’s for him. He blames it on fatigue. He knocks twice on the door and it’s only seconds before it swings open and even in the half light the blue of Castiel’s eyes is sharp and clear.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean lips curl up into a smile of their own volition at the greeting and although he thinks should feel nervous or awkward, he just steps forward. Cas pulls him close and Dean turns his face into Cas’ neck. He still smells a little bit like pears.

Fuck, he’s turning into a girl.

He feels Cas tilt his head toward him. “What is that smell?” Cas asks, tone inquisitive and Dean grimaces.

“I’m pretty sure that’s hot sauce. It was wing night and game night and the pub down the street lost the cable…”

He realizes he’s rambling somewhat as Cas pulls him inside and closes the door with a soft click behind him. Cas is making low ‘mm-hmm’ sounds and quiet murmurs of agreement and interest as he leads Dean up the stairs and Dean continues to natter on sleepily about chickens, buckets of sauce, dropping his cell phone in the potato masher, and customers who don’t know the difference between lagers and ales.

Cas deftly steers Dean into the master bedroom and when he starts unbuttoning Dean’s shirt and pants, Dean sighs happily, grips the back of Cas’ neck and pulls him in for a kiss.

“You’re exhausted,” Castiel says, stripping Dean of his most of his clothes.

“I’m tired but I’m not dead,” Dean murmurs back against Cas’ lips, cradling the back of Cas’ skull in his hand. He can feel Cas’ lips turn up in a smile against his own and can’t help it when he grins back like an idiot.

Cas presses forward slightly, imposing on Dean’s space, sending him off balance and backward onto the bed where he lands with a soft bounce. Cas’ bed is stupidly soft and Dean shouldn’t like it. He should want a manly man’s bed, all hard angles and firm mattress with no give, but he can’t help but give a happy little sigh as he crawls up the mattress to the headboard.

“Dude, your bed is awesome,” he blurts out gleefully and is a little horrified by it.

“And perhaps tonight we’ll actually get to sleep _in_ it instead of on the floor,” Cas replies dryly, yanking his shirt up and over his head in a swift move that leaves his hair askew and tousled. He makes quick work of taking off his pants and tugs the covers back, yanking them from underneath where Dean is sitting on them. He sinks into the bed and Dean grabs his arm and tugs him closer, their lips meeting in a graceless smack, their teeth clacking together soundly. Cas barks out a surprised laugh.

“I swear to God, I have better moves than that,” Dean says against his lips.

“I’ve no doubt, and I look forward to them, but right now, you’re going to sleep.”

“‘m not tired,” Dean says, laying back and pulling Cas down with him.

“Perhaps I want you well rested for what I have in mind.”

“Sounds promising,” Dean mutters, trying to angle Cas’ head for another kiss. Castiel deftly shifts onto his side, managing to snag Dean with him, tucking him in close.

Dean starts to protest and then gives an absurdly huge yawn. “Dude, I _cannot_ be the the little spoon.”

“What are you talking about?” Castiel asks tugging Dean infinitesimally closer.

Dean knows he had a reason why he can’t be the little spoon. Something about being manly and feeling stupid but his back is ridiculously warm pressed up against Castiel’s chest and he can feel soft puffs of air on the hard edges of his spine and neck. He feels safe and warm and suddenly so goddamn tired that he has the brief sensation he’s falling and jerks awake sharply. He feels Castiel’s lips ghost over his neck, soothing and… familiar.

His last semi-conscious thought is that it’s pretty damn great to be the little spoon.

***

They fall into a pattern; an easy routine of Dean sleeping over at Collinwood and Castiel coming by the pub on Dean’s nights. It turns into Dean leaving a set of clothes and a toothbrush in the master bedroom and waking up to Cas curled around him and under him and nights coming home from the pub and Castiel always waiting up.

Dean didn’t realize how much it would mean to come up that driveway and always, _always_ see that light on.

Sam bitches and moans good-naturedly that he’s lost his house frau, since Dean was always cleaning up after him, loading the dishwasher and making sure the garbage got out on the right day. But Dean can see that Sam is happy for him and it makes him ridiculously glad.

Jesus, he’s such a sap.

Castiel doesn’t know a thing about sports and Dean makes it his mission to turn him into a football fan and they fight over Castiel’s wide screen TVtv when it turns out that Castiel likes soccer instead and the schedules clash. Castiel can’t stand Dean’s rock music and hides his iPod for days and returns it telling Dean that if he wakes up to _’that infernal crashing and banging’_ one more time he’ll smash the small device.

Dean putters around Collinwood, surprised at how quickly he feels at home in the large estate. It doesn’t seem weird at all for him to be letting Chuck in one day, as if it’s Dean’s own house. Chuck himself doesn’t seem at all surprised to see Dean there, just gives him one of his squirrelly Chuck-like nods and heads into the den where he is meeting Castiel.

Dean’s not sure what kind of work they’re doing. Cas doesn’t mentions it and Chuck won’t say. Chuck sometimes comes by three or four times a week, and then won’t show up for days. When asked, Castiel murmurs something about Chuck helping him with antiquities and Chuck nods and smiles, his eyes bright and tight.    
It’s not really Dean’s thing, so he doesn’t ask any further.

He’s planning a weekend camping trip for him and Ben, making his list of stuff to purchase at the outdoor sporting store when he gets the mental image of Castiel camping and it makes him chuckle. While Castiel is certainly a ‘can-do’ kind of guy, Dean has a hard time picturing him sleeping in a tent, sitting around a campfire and setting marshmallows aflame only to blow them out and eat them when they’re still too hot. Castiel enters the kitchen, just as Dean is smiling to himself over the picture.

“What?” he asks at Dean’s amused expression.

“I’m picturing you camping,” Dean says with a grin.

Castiel winces. “I’ve spent enough of my life ‘roughing it’ as you say. I’ve no desire to purposefully put myself out in the wilderness when I’ve got a fine roof over my head and a comfortable bed.”

“You should just come out for the day. You can fish with Ben and me.”

“I believe Benjamin is looking forward to having you all to himself. He’s been chattering about this weekend endlessly.” Castiel’s words are warm and fond as he discusses Ben. “I’ve been hearing all about how ‘cool’ it will be and ‘awesome.’” Castiel frowns. “That word no longer means what it used to if it can be used to describe a day of hooking worms trying to catch fish.”

Dean laughs. “C’mon. It would just be for a day. I won’t even make you camp out.”

“Thank you, but no.” Castiel stares out the tempered glass of the kitchen window. “I believe it’s going to be quite sunny this weekend.”

“Oh… I.. Shit, I’m sorry. I forgot. I just forget…”

“There is nothing for which you need to apologize.”

Dean nods, tapping his pen quietly on the table for a moment. “Have you thought about going to see Sam? I mean, he’s a great doctor and if he can’t help you, he might know someone or know of a specialist or something…”

Castiel hesitates, eyes drifting away from Dean and out the window again before answering. “My… condition is… quite rare and unusual.”

“When was the last time you saw anyone about it?” Dean hedges.

“Many years ago.”

“So, maybe there’ve been some changes or advancements that you don’t know about.”

Dean brings up a valid and interesting point. As a matter of fact, Castiel has never seen a medical doctor about his… affliction. In his own time, to do so would have surely condemned him. Even if a doctor didn’t declare him cursed or possessed, there wasn’t anything to be done. But now… it had never occurred to him until this moment but his supernatural condition may have a very modern medical treatment or cure. He wouldn’t have to confess the nature of his condition, not that anyone would believe him, and he sincerely doubts that he will be diagnosed with _acute vampirism_.

“Perhaps you are right,” he says finally and Dean perks up a bit in his chair.

“Yeah?”

“If your brother is willing to meet with me, I would very much like to speak with him.”

***

Sam makes sure his office helps his patients feel as at ease as possible. He has a desk, but he doesn’t sit at it when meeting with patients, not liking the way it feels like an automatic barrier between them. And he doesn’t like to sit in his big chair, because he towers over people even when he’s sitting. Instead he has two plush high-backed chairs with ottomans and a small table between them. The walls are a muted brown, the furniture dark. He really had no preference for colors when he got his office, as long as it wasn’t that horrible hospital green or yellow that institutions everywhere chose and seemed to think was ‘relaxing.’

He didn’t even want to put his diplomas on the wall, but Dean had persuaded him saying that ‘no one was gonna wanna talk to a doctor who couldn't prove he went to school’ with a side helping of ‘we didn’t spend all that money on your brain just so you could _not_ put this piece of very expensive paper on the wall.’

So the degrees went up. But so did pictures of the Maine coastline that Sam likes and one of him and Dean when they were younger, both of them covered in mud, arms slung around each other, grinning as they held up the ribbon for winning the greased pig contest at the summer fair.

Castiel was staring at the photo of the two smiling boys when Sam entered his office.

“Mr. Collins,” says Sam, his face already breaking into a bright smile. “I’m glad you came to see me.”

Castiel takes his hand in a firm shake, bemused as he looks up. “Please call me Castiel.”

“Sam,” Sam says with a jerk of his head and then he inclines it toward the chairs. “Why don’t we sit down and talk?”

He’s aware of Sam watching him as he sits, taking in the precision with which he places his limbs and settles himself. Castiel rests his hands on top of the silver handled cane he carries with him.

“I appreciate you seeing me,” begins Castiel. “I confess, I’ve not seen a medical professional about my… condition for… some time. But of course you come highly recommended by Dean.”

“Well, I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to help, but it doesn’t hurt to try.”

“I suppose not. Dean speaks very highly of you.”

Sam’s smile widens. “Yeah, he does that. When I was away at school I’m pretty sure he bored the town talking about me.”

“He cares for you a great deal. You mean a lot to him.”

Castiel says it so calmly, so easily that Sam blinks. Dean’s carefully guarded with his emotions;while Dean’s never made it a secret that he loves his brother, Sam’s surprised to hear someone talking about Dean’s feelings so plainly, and it makes him happy and curious and protective at once. Dean made him swear that when Castiel came to see him, Sam would keep it strictly medical. Sam had promised.

Of course, Dean had him in a glorious headlock at the time and was knuckling his skull for all it was worth, but Sam _did_ promise.

So when he blurts out, “Are you serious about my brother?” he’s a little bit mortified. He hadn’t meant to say it, but it just sort of… leapt out of his mouth.

Castiel’s lips curl up in a small smile. “Are you asking me what my intentions are towards Dean?”

“Oh, hey, look… I uh… crap, Dean kind of made me promise I wouldn’t ask and if I’m going to be your doctor, it’s, uh, well, seriously, you don’t have to answer. I… shit, forget I said it.”

“My intentions are honorable.” Castiel’s words are soft but firm, his blue eyes focused on Sam intently and Sam blushes.

“Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

“But of course it is. You are his family.”

“I’m pretty sure he won’t see it that way if he finds out I asked.”

“I will not tell him.”

“Thanks. So,” Sam segues, leaning slightly forward in his chair, “Why don’t you tell me what you can about your condition?”

Castiel’s eyebrows come together slightly and he gathers his words carefully before speaking. “It set on later in my life. I had no such affliction as a child. It came on rather… suddenly.”

“Can you think of anything in particular that may have precipitated it?”

Images of Ruby’s twisted features play out in his mind; the sharp tang of rat’s blood as it touched his tongue for the first time, the acrid burn of smoke in the air.

“Nothing that I believe is of medical significance.”

Sam gives that statement careful consideration. It’s not a ‘no’ but it’s clearly not a statement that invites more questions.

“And your allergy to the sun, how does it manifest?”

“I have a strong sensitivity to the sunlight. I can be outside on cloudy or overcast days. It’s worse when I am… tired or … I have not eaten. I find my eyesight is not as good in strong light as it used to be. In fact, strong sunlight will cause headaches. My skin will burn quite quickly in direct sunlight if I am… weakened. Although, I may be able to be outside in direct sun for several minutes if I have been… attending to my needs. I see very well in the dark however, and am generally able to get by with very little light at all.”

“It’s a burn? It’s not a rash or a hive reaction?”

“No, it is most assuredly a burn.”

“Do you have any medical records that I could have access to?”

“I’m afraid not. I lived in a very small town and the local doctor ran some minor tests but beyond that…” he waves a hand dismissively. “At any rate, he passed on and I’m not sure what happened to the records.”

“Hmm. It’s too bad we won’t have any data from before your allergy flared up. Sometimes it can be helpful in determining what has changed in your physiology. Any other health concerns?”

A ghost of a smile flickers over Castiel’s lips. “No. I’m quite resilient. I don’t get sick and I’ve suffered no major injuries.”

“Any other allergies?”

“None of which I am aware.”

“What’s your diet like?”

“Rather high in iron. I tire easily if I don’t ensure I get enough. I’m rather… selective about what I consume, although that’s more of a preference than anything else. As long as I get enough protein and iron I do fine. Anything else…” he waves his hand casually. “I eat what I wish.”

“Physical activity?”

“In my youth I was quite active. We were rather… we did not have as many technical advantages as you have here in Collinsport. We lived a rather… rustic lifestyle. After my affliction set in, I was not able to be outside as much during the day, but I was able to make up for it during the night. I’m stronger than I appear. I can do a great number of things without tiring or requiring rest.”

“How do you sleep?”

“Like the dead.” It’s not as though he’s without humor.

“Have you ever experienced any seizures, or other symptoms of neurological disorders?”

“No.”

“What about your family?”

“No one had an affliction like mine.”

“Had?”

“I am the last surviving member of my immediate family. I am of course distantly related to the Collins’ here, but I doubt any of them have a similar illness.”

“You don’t have any other family in England?”

“No.”

Sam nods thoughtfully, a practiced look of sympathy across his face. “Okay, well, I’d like to run some tests, put you through a standard physical, if that’s all right, and augment it with some additional testing. Blood samples and some allergy tests and see what we get. I’m not an allergist myself, so if you’re agreeable, I’d like to consult with a colleague of mine who works in immunology.”

“I leave all medical decisions in your capable hands.”

Twenty minutes later, Sam is drawing his seventh vial of blood from a quiet Castiel.

“You should go ahead and get all the vampire jokes out of the way.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Sam smiles as he removed the full vial of blood and snaps an empty one in with a practiced hand. “At this point, people usually start making jokes about doctors being vampires, with all the blood we draw. And I’ll probably put you through this several times.”

“Of course,” Castiel says, a small smile playing across his lips. “Although if you were a vampire, I doubt this quantity would be sufficient to satisfy you.”

Sam laughs. “Probably not. Speaking of vampires, it’s likely conditions like your own and others like porphyria that may have led to vampire mythology.”

“I’m unfamiliar with that medical term.”

“It’s a medical disorder involving the enzymes in the heme bio-synthetic pathway. It’s why I had asked you about seizures. Some forms of porphyria are accompanied by an unusual sensitivity to light.” Sam makes a face. “But I think the anthropologists and sociologists are still fighting over whether or not it was exclusively responsible for the vampire myth. At any rate, I’d hate to think of you suffering this allergy in the middle ages or the industrial revolution.”

“Yes, I’m sure the local religious leaders would have claimed I needed to be staked through the heart, or had my head severed from my body.”

Sam’s eyes flick over to Castiel, whose attention is precisely focused on the needle drawing blood from his arm. While his tone is light, his expression is grim and hard.

“Well, lucky for you, you’ve got modern science on your side.” Sam pulls out the full vial and snaps in a new one. “And I’m not about to suggest decapitation as a form of treatment.”

Castiel raises his blue eyes to Sam. “How fortunate.”


	14. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 14 - Campfire Tales

Dean rings the doorbell and swings his keys around his finger, catching them in the palm of his hand. He figures he and Ben have time to stop for slushees on the way out of town and still make it to the campsite before dark to set up the tent. Although he feels bad that he Cas can’t come, and feels worse for completely forgetting for that moment about his sun allergy, he’s looking forward to spending the weekend with Ben. Time with Ben is supremely uncomplicated. Not that Dean’s life is difficult, but when he’s with Ben, they talk about video games and movies, then Ben will try to convince Dean that he needs more candy and Dean will say no at first, and eventually give in.

When they go camping, there’s marshmallows and hot cocoa before bedtime and when they catch fish, they make a royal, disgusting mess out of gutting it, with Ben gleefully explaining that every girl he knows, including his step-mom would be _horrified_ by what they’re doing.

It’s fun and simple. And Dean made sure he has more than enough marshmallows for several rounds of s’mores.

“Dean Winchester.”

He looks up at Pamela saying his name. How she always manages to make his name sound suggestive, he will never know.

“Hey Pam, is Ben ready yet?”

She smiles. “Almost. I tried to help but I was very clearly told that it was guy stuff and he didn’t need me poking around in his things.” She steps back out of the doorway and Dean follows her into the house.

He’s been in the house a few of times, usually just long enough to pick up Ben or drop him off so he’s seen the painting of Castiel Collins before but it’s his first time seeing it since he started dating Cas.

Pamela seems to expect that he’ll want to look at it and pauses quietly while he stares at it.

Jesus, it’s amazing. It’s _exactly_ like him.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Pamela drawls.

“Yeah,” he nods. “I, uh… yeah.”

The blue of his eyes is perfectly the same, the cut of the jaw, the focus of his gaze. If he hadn’t already seen the painting, he would think that Cas had just posed for it.

“Anna is going to ask Castiel if he’ll pose for her so she can paint a contemporary one as well,” adds Pamela.

Dean nods absently while still staring at the picture. It’s the kind of painting where the eyes seem to follow the viewer as they move through the room.

Pamela tugs on his sleeve playfully and Dean shakes himself slightly as he trails after her into the drawing room.

She sits on the couch with cat-like grace. “I hear you’ve been spending all your spare time up at the old house. With Castiel.”

One of her eyebrows is delicately arched over her almond eyes and although he’s no spring-chicken, he feels a flush start to creep up his neck.

“Uh, yes.”

“I also hear hearts are breaking all over town at the news that Dean Winchester is firmly off the market.”

Dean chuckles. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

“About the gossip or about the fact that you’re off the market?”

“Er, well, the gossip.” Damn, that woman has x-ray eyes and she’s raking him over with them.

“Mm-hmm,” replies Pam. “I’d like to have you and Castiel over for dinner sometime. You let me know when you have a night off at the pub.”

“You bet. Uh, if we’ve got a few minutes, I was hoping I could talk to you about something? About Ben?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know about this friend he has?” He uses his fingers to put air-quotes around the words.

At his expression, Pamela nods. “Oh, you mean Sarah?”

Dean’s surprised. “Yeah, he’s told you about her?”

Pamela shrugs. “Not really, but I’ve seen her around.”

“You’ve _seen_ her?”

“Yes.”

“Ben said she’s dead,” he blurts.

“She is.”

“Okay, what?”

“She’s dead. She’s a ghost.” Pam’s talking to him like it’s the most common topic of conversation in the world and all Dean can do is stare back.

“Dean, I’ve told you before. I’m psychic,” she says plainly, gently, as though he’s a child.

“Yeah, but-”

“But you didn’t believe me. I know. Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Cracked. She’s totally cracked. “So you’re telling me that this friend of Ben’s, this Sarah is…”

“A ghost. Yes.”

“And you’ve seen her.” Incredulity coats his words. He can’t believe they’re standing here essentially arguing about ghosts. Even if he ever thought he would argue about them, he certainly never thought he’d have to convince someone that they don’t just hang around.

“Here and there. She used to spend a lot of time here but now I think she spends more time up at the old house. She probably used to live there.”

She says it all casually with a shrug. Like she and Dean have similar discussions every day.

“And this is all okay with you? This is all perfectly normal and doesn’t worry you?”

“Should it?”

“She’s dead! And Ben… well, he… talks to her! And they roam around and do… stuff.”

“Yes, stuff like looking for rocks and building forts in the woods. I believe they’re also reading Swiss Family Robinson. Hardly the stuff of nightmares. It’s harmless. At least I know where he is. He could be out getting into drugs or god only knows what else kids get into these days, but instead, he prefers to spend his time poking around the estate, searching for buried treasure.”

“With a dead girl.”

She waves her hand like this is unimportant. “Dean, I’m sure this is all very… surreal for you, but I’ve dealt with this my whole life. One of the reasons I married Ben’s father is because he was gifted as well and understood me. Clearly he passed that gift on to Ben. Ben seems happy. He’s doing well in school, he has friends other than Sarah, and it’s not as though he’s cut off from the world. And he has you. Now, if he suddenly turned down a weekend of camping with you so he could hang around here with Sarah, or if he asked me to buy him a half dozen hamsters for a ritual sacrifice…” she shrugs. “Then I might start to be concerned. But to him, she’s just another friend.”

“Even though she’s dead.”

“Even though.”

Dean’s still not sure he believes Pam. Maybe she’s the one that’s crazy and she’s feeding this stuff to Ben, and he’s young, impressionable and falls for it. Or maybe both her and Ben are hallucinating, or sick. It could happen. Happens all the time on those bizarre medical dramas. Shared hallucinations brought on by toxic mold, this is an old house, after all

“We don’t have toxic mold, Dean Winchester.”

He jumps back a bit. Pamela’s always been good at reading him but she’s never been that good.

“Well, I figured you needed a little demonstration but, I don’t make a habit of rooting around in your brain, I’ve got better things to do, trust me. Unless you want to start sharing about how much time you’ve been spending up at the old Estate with Castiel?”

Dean gulps. _Work, think of work, think of Sam, think of the Impala. Yes! The Impala with its deep engine, low purr that’s just like Cas’… No! Car, car, think of the car._

Pamela laughs, throaty and happy, waving him off with a hand. “Go. Go get Ben and go do your manly man things out in the woods.”

He wouldn’t say he exactly _scampers_ out of the drawing room, but it’s pretty damn close.

***

It’s just starting to cool off, the damp air taking on a chill by the time Dean has the tent set up and a fire going in the pit. Ben’s flipping through comic books catching Dean up on the latest happenings in the Pokemon world.

Dean tries to focus, he really does, but it’s all mumbo jumbo to him. Ben rolls his eyes several times at the questions Dean asks. Dean clearly doesn’t get it. They roast hot dogs for dinner and Dean tosses one into the fire so they can watch it swell up and explode in boyish delight. Ben’s a non-stop chatter box about school, video games, comic books, his friends, and April, who is still apparently his girlfriend and now they even stand next to each other in line after recess, so things have progressed. It’s quite the serious step from the way Ben tells it.

After dinner, Dean toasts marshmallows and stuffs them between graham crackers with bits of chocolate. Ben proclaims he’s old enough to assemble his own, but the first time Dean lets him try, he attempts to put the s’more together while the marshmallow is still on fire.

Dean is master chef of all s’mores after that.

Dean eats far too many and at one point seriously thinks he might be sick. He manages to keep it together and even makes them both a cup of hot cocoa before bedtime.

Tucked into their sleeping bags, Dean’s got his flashlight shining up under his chin while Ben’s is laying flat in his lap.

“… and that’s when they hear the sound… scrape, scrape, scrape. Then one of the guys in the back seat says he remembers reading that morning that a serial killer had escaped from the insane asylum…”

“How?” Ben interrupted.

“What? I don’t know how, he just got out. Anyway, the serial killer only had one hand, on the other was. A. HOOK!”

Ben is totally not impressed and doesn’t even flinch at Dean’s shout.

“Why did they let him keep the hook if he was in jail?” Ben asked.

Dean paused again. “I don’t know. He found it. When he escaped. He found a locker of all his stuff and he found his rusty hook.”

“Why was it rusty?”

“Because it had been sitting in a locker for all those years,” Dean answers, exasperated.

“But why’d they keep it at all? It should have been locked up for evidence. That’s what they do on CSI.”

“This is before CSI,” Dean argues. This was a lot easier with Sam when he was little.

“Is this an _old_ serial killer?”

Dean sighs and drops his flashlight to his lap. “Dude, this is the best story I have.”

Ben shrugs. “Sorry, but it’s kinda lame.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine. Tell me more about Pokemon.” He makes a ‘come on’ gesture with his hand. Part of the fun of camping is staying up late and Dean figures he can take about an hour more of Pokemon before he calls lights out.

“Um, I kind of know a story,” Ben hedges.

“Is this a Pokemon story?”

“No.”

“Super Mario Brothers?”

“No.”

“Is this gonna be like that time you told me all of Star Wars and tried to convince me you wrote it?”

“That was you!”

Dean laughs. “So it was. Okay, I’m listening.” _Especially_ if it’s not Pokemon.

Ben tips his own flashlight up so it’s shining under his chin, just like Dean had before. “Um, like a long time ago, there was a witch that lived in Collinsport. And her name was Ruby.”

Dean shivers slightly and he looks over his shoulder, checking for a draft or crack in the tent seam but there isn’t one. He turns back to Ben.

“And Ruby was really mean. She would kick dogs when she saw them on the street and she never took her gloves off when she went in someone's house and that was really rude. Her hair was always down and she never tied it up properly and her dresses were…” Ben pauses like he’s trying to recall a certain word. “… improper.”

Dean frowns. That’s an unusual word choice for Ben, but Dean doesn’t say anything.

“And Ruby didn’t ever go to church. ‘cause she was a witch and God would strike her down if she set foot inside a holy building. She rode a big brown horse and it was scrawny and never fed enough and Ruby would whip it when she rode it because the horse wouldn’t go fast enough for her. Most people in town thought she was just mean, but she was a witch.”

“Where did you hear this story, Ben?” Dean asks, concerned at Ben’s odd words.

“Sarah told me,” Ben says easily.

Dean nods absently. “I see. Go on.”

“Anyway, the only two things in the world that Ruby wanted more than to be a witch was to marry the man she loved and live forever. She was a strong witch, but she couldn’t make herself importal.”

“Immortal,” Dean corrects automatically.

“That’s what I said. But she could make someone else immortal and then they could change her.”

Dean starts to feel a little dizzy. He leans over to make sure the flaps are open on the tent and they are getting fresh air.

“Are you sick? Did you eat too much?” Ben asks.

“I’m fine. Keep going.”

“The person Ruby was in love with was kind of like a prince. He had a lot of money and he was really good looking and everyone liked him. But he was already in love with someone else. And Ruby had to get rid of person the prince loved first. She went through all her old books until she found a spell to make a doll of a person, a hoo-doo doll.”

“Voodoo.”

“Yeah. And one day, she dressed up like a boy, and hid her hair under a hat, and she wore pants. _Pants out in public_.” Ben says this as though it were scandalous and Dean has no doubt that Ben is repeating the story exactly as it was told to him. And if Dean admits to that, which he has to because it’s just that obvious, he has to admit he believes in ghosts, to believe in Sarah.  
“She walked up behind the person the prince loved and she cut a piece of hair from their neck and all they thought was that a spider had landed on them and they brushed it off. Then Ruby waited for them to stop and say hello to someone and when they did, she bumped into them and sliced a button from their coat. And that was all she needed.”

A cold sweat breaks across Dean’s upper lip and he swipes at it. It would be ridiculous of him to be scared, but he feels a strange sort of vertigo. Maybe too many hotdogs or too much sugar, or possibly the hot chocolate was old. He feels like Ben’s voice is very far away, like if he reached out for Ben, his fingers wouldn’t find him and would only clutch at empty air.

“She made her doll with the hair and the button and when it was ready, she put it on a shelf. And she waited.”

“What was she waiting for?” Dean can’t help but ask.

“She _liked_ waiting. She liked knowing what she was gonna do and that nobody was gonna stop her. But one day, she couldn’t wait anymore and she took the doll and she smashed it on her table. _Crack_!”

Dean flinches. He barely has time to realize he’s done it before Ben continues.

“And she smashed it again, crack! Crack! And the person the prince loved broke. They broke really bad and there was nothing the doctor could do.” Ben shakes his head sadly.

Dean’s leaning forward toward Ben. “And then?”

“Then Ruby waited some more. She waited for the prince to come see her. The prince knew Ruby knew bad stuff. The prince asked Ruby to save the person he loved. But Ruby… I can’t remember the right word. She told him something and it was a lie.”

“Betrayed? Ruby betrayed him?”

“Yeah, she betrayed him,” Ben says with the knowing nod of nine year olds. “She did some magic and it made the prince a monster, and then she told the prince to go make the person he loved a monster so they will both live forever. But she told him wrong. She did it by purpose.”

“On purpose,” Dean murmurs.

“Yeah. On purpose and when the prince did what she said, the person died.”

Ben stops there and Dean leans forward a millimeter more. “Well?” he prods. “Then what?”

“Well, the prince killed Ruby,” Ben finishes, as though it were obvious.

“And?”

Ben puts his flashlight down. “And nothing. That’s it. That’s the end of the story.”

“There’s got to be more than that,” Dean blurts. He feels tense and anxious and strangely… prickly as though parts of his body have been asleep and are only now waking up.

Ben shrugs. “That’s all Sarah told me.”

He knows that it’s completely irrational but he wants to leave all their stuff, drive back to Collinsport, march up to Pamela’s house, and demand that Ben find Sarah and make her tell him more.

“But… what… that’s a horrible ending.”

Again Ben shrugs. “I thought it was really cool. You should hear Sarah tell it. She tells stories great. She cried when she told me that one.” Ben yawns. “Can I play with my DS for a bit?”

“If you turn the sound off,” Dean replies automatically. Ben scurries over to his backpack and pulls out his Nintendo DS, flicking the sound off and eagerly starting his game. It’s a regular part of their camp-outs, evenings always ending with Ben playing his DS quietly in his sleeping bag while Dean ignores how late he’s staying up.

Dean makes sure Ben is all the way in his sleeping bag before sliding into his own, the tiny DS screen illuminating the tent. He’s stuck on Ben’s story, looping it around in his head. It’s a strange story for a nine year old, and stranger still is Dean’s reaction to it. He feels unsettled and, if he’s honest with himself, a little scared.

He stares up at the fabric ceiling of the tent long after Ben’s screen goes dark and the quiet sounds of Ben snoring fill the tent.


	15. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 15 - Sam Winchester Learns 2+2=Vampire in Collinsport

“What have you found?”

Chuck nervously flips through his coiled notebook, pages rustling.

“Well, it took me some time to track down the paperwork, record keeping being what it is, but I think I’ve got the beginning of what happened to Ruby’s estate after you… well after she… you know.” Chuck makes a sharp gesture with his hands that is creepily reminiscent of when Castiel broke Ruby’s neck. Chuck realizes what he’s done immediately and cringes. “Sorry. Uh, anyway. So Ruby’s estate reverted back to her father.”

“Her father?” Castiel repeats. “I did not know of him.”

“No, he uh, still lived in England at the time.”

“What was his name?”

“Lucian. I don’t have a lot of the details yet, but I don’t think they were in contact a lot. She left England when she was fourteen and came to America. With only a servant. Which is kind of odd for a girl of her age at the time. So I’m looking into that, see if I can find out what happened but,” Chuck shrugs. “Who knows. I mean, it’s not like anyone would have to write down why they were doing what they were doing, you know? Anyway, there was the fire, which, uh, you know,” Chuck said with nervous darts of his eyes. “And Ruby was dead, and it took some time I guess for the magistrate to sort it all out. Um, by the time Ruby’s father came over from England, the city had taken care of Ruby’s burial and a lot of people had been in and out of the estate and the church got involved with what they saw and it seems like a lot, if not all of her, um… stuff was confiscated. I’m looking into diocese records to see what I can find.”

Chuck hands over some notes he had made while doing his research, all typed up clearly for Castiel with dates and timelines all detailed. Castiel flips through them thoughtfully while Chuck continues.

“So, it looks like her father showed up and cleared out the rest of her estate and then went back to England. Jolly old.” Chuck chuckles.

Castiel’s eyes flick up from his notes and rest on Chuck who coughs and squirms a little in his seat.

“And, um, one of the cooks at the pub, Ash, he’s like, really good with computers and information, and if it’s all right with you, I thought maybe we could hire him to look into Ruby’s dad. I can access the Collinsport historical records directly here, and honestly, the archivists are just so fucking happy to see a real live person that they’re pretty helpful, but I don’t know how to go about getting the England stuff, but Ash, he can get pretty much anything he wants on the internet. And I wouldn’t be weird at all, because I can tell him you’re researching your past and old family friends and, you know, whatever.”

Castiel keeps reading Chuck’s notes while Chuck fidgets in his seat before finally looking up.

“Very well. Put Mr…?”

“Um, he just goes by Ash.”

Castiel’s expression clearly indicates what he thinks of that. “Put him on retainer. Pay him whatever you see fit.”

Chuck puffs up a little with pride a the responsibility. “Okay. Will do.” Chuck shifts in his seat. “So, how are things?”

Castiel’s cool eyes met Chuck’s. “How do you mean?”

“Well, um, it seems like you and, uh, Dean are, you know, uh, doing pretty well. Together. Not that I think about you together, because I don’t and the dreams have mostly stopped now, thank god, not that I saw much before,” he hurries to add. “Because I didn’t and if I did, Jesus that’s not a conversation I would ever, _ever_ bring up with you. But Dean spends a lot of time here and he seems happy and you seem happy and so.” Chuck stops abruptly. “You have no lingering desire to kill me that’s been languishing unchecked all this time that I’ve suddenly activated, do you?”

Castiel smiles at Chuck and Chuck’s not sure if he should smile back or make a break for it.

“Charles, you do amuse me. I enjoy your company. It’s refreshing.”

Chucks shoulders sag a little in relief. “Oh, thank god.”

“I believe things, as you say, are well.”

“Good. That’s, uh, good.” Chuck nods. “‘Cause Dean seems like he’s happy. When I see him. Around Collinwood and at the pub. And you…”

“Do I seem happy to you, Charles?” Castiel asks with a raised eyebrow. “As happy as a monster can be?”

“You’re not a monster,” says Chuck immediately. “You just… have… a thing. A blood thing.”

Castiel lets out a wry huff. “I’ve not heard it phrased quite that way. Ever.”

“Well, you’re not killing anybody, and I figure that’s kind of a plus. Isn’t it?”

“I suppose so, but that is hardly the status quo by which we should measure things.”

“I guess. But it’s something.” Chuck is silent for a moment. “We’ll find something. There’s got to be something out there.”

Jesus, is he giving a pep talk to a vampire? Wow. Surreal.

A really bad pep talk. He sighs.

“Thank you, Charles. Your devotion is heartwarming.”

From anyone else it would sound sarcastic and maybe even a little mean, but Castiel means it and it makes Chuck smile.

“You’re welcome.”

***

The head of the lab had left him a note, _a note_ for crying out loud, asking him to call her when he gets the report.

He’d been assured by her that the tests had been run three times, the final time by herself personally, and the results were accurate. She’d checked the integrity of the samples as well and could find no instance of contamination. She’d even gone as far as to pull up the serial numbers on the vials and check the batch shipment logs to ensure that there wasn’t something wrong with any of the vials that Sam had used.

Everything came up fine, except for the results themselves.

He mentioned to Castiel at their meeting that he might send the results to an immunologist, but at this point, he’s going to have to send them to a hematologist as well because he isn’t sure what he’s looking at.

He really isn’t sure, in fact, how Castiel is alive with numbers like these.

His next thought is for Dean. Dean who’s been so _happy_ lately. Every time Sam sees him, he’s got a grin on his face and Sam’s not dumb, he knows it’s all about Castiel. Not that Dean wasn’t happy before he met Castiel. He’d been… content. He had the pub, he had Sam, he had good friends. But since he started seeing Castiel… it’s like Dean had been waiting for something and it _finally_ showed up.

Sam doesn’t know what Dean will do if that gets taken away from him. Now that Dean’s had it, Sam’s not sure he can go back to just being content.

He’s getting ahead of himself here. First off, Sam has to figure out what they’re dealing with here, and he’s going to need some help.

***

Two days later and Sam still doesn’t understand the results of Castiel’s blood work. He tracked down a hematologist to review them and on a last minute whim, he struck Castiel’s name off the report, leaving only patient statistics. The hematologist had told him in no uncertain terms that the results were impossible. Somewhere, somehow the samples must have been contaminated because nobody could have the kind of numbers he was reading on the report. It simply wasn’t possible to pull those kinds of results out of a living patient.

Sam didn’t tell him about the lab already verifying the vials and the collection. Sam also didn’t tell him that the patient in question was seen walking around Collinsport on a regular basis.

Although never in the sunlight.

The immunologist was equally stumped and had questioned the veracity of the blood work as well. She’d read Sam’s notes about the sun allergy and had run several tests on the samples sent to her, including exposing one of the small samples to UV light.

Where it had promptly boiled and then exploded.

Her only plausible answer was that the samples must have been procured improperly or contaminated in the lab. Agent unknown.

Sam had taken the blood himself and he knew that it wasn't compromised when it went into the vials. And he had the lab run the batch numbers of his collection vials again. He’d even gone so far as to take one vial of his own blood for every vial of Castiel’s blood that he had taken and had the lab verify their equipment.

His blood came up fine.

He was left with a pretty tough conundrum. What were the chances that all ten of Castiel’s samples were somehow corrupted?

Pretty slim.

But then again, the alternative is that Castiel isn’t… isn’t what? Alive? Human? That’s been the sticking point for Sam. The sheer ludicrousness of either of those choices has been the only thing keeping Sam from hunting Dean down at Collinwood and dragging him home to find out what the hell is going on.

That and how ridiculously happy Dean is. Sam’s been checking in with people all over town and everyone’s been commenting on it. The town is in full throttle gossip mode about Dean Winchester and Castiel Collins. Sure, there are some who are hoping a sweet girl with a nice rack will put Dean on the ‘straight and narrow’ (pun definitely intended), but most folks are just happy to have something to gossip about.

Last night, Sam laid in bed for hours running circles in his own brain. Part of him was waiting for the tell-tale snick of a key in a lock indicating that Dean had come home, but it never came.

Dean was spending pretty much every night at Collinwood.

In the dark, alone in the house, Sam’s imagination got the better of him. His brain was all too helpful in coming up with simply preposterous and ridiculous reasons for Castiel’s results, and most of them hovered around the _VAMPIRE_ theory.

Which is just… he was ashamed to even think it. It’s ludicrous. Completely illogical and they’d take away his medical degree(whoever the ubiquitous ‘they’ are) if they knew he even let it cross his mind.

Back at the hospital the next day he shakes his head at his own foolishness. He’s a doctor, for crying out loud. He relies on science and results, tests and data, for his facts.

The facts are this: Castiel Collins’ condition is some kind of medical mystery, but that does not mean that he isn’t human. Jesus. The sheer amount of things they _don’t_ know in medicine is astounding. There are still new discoveries, new frontiers. And the human body is a complex organic machine, performing thousands of functions every day. They’re still learning all the ways that things can go wrong, all the ways the body can malfunction and create havoc.

But it’s hardly any reason for him to… well to freak out, frankly. The mystery of DNA was as seemingly impenetrable a relatively short time ago. Sam just has to get a hold of his ridiculousness and focus on the science. Focus on the _facts_. There are very few things that really do go bump in the night.

He’s so busy giving himself a stern talking to as he signs into the duty roster he doesn’t notice Chairman of the Hospital Board, the head of Hospital Security, a rep from Legal Affairs and the Hospital PR spokesperson chatting with Dr. Sorenson from Blood Services until they’re almost next to him.

“… well it’s a serious problem on quite a few levels and I think we’re going to have to alert the police,” Dr. Sorenson is saying.

Sam’s ears perk up and he feigns working on some charts left behind the desk at the nurse’s station while he listens. The hospital is fraught with gossip and Sam is not immune. Plus, these are some serious heavy weights, and it’s pretty early for them to be meeting. It looks like they’re coming back from Blood Services and heading to the elevator bank at the far end of the nurse’s station.

Dr. Sorenson is still speaking. “Collinsport is a good town, but donations to the bank are always hard to come by. Not everyone who is a candidate donates on a regular basis. And with flus breaking out in Mexico and other vacation hotspots, our list of regular donors is slim at best. Of course, this is just the logistics. This doesn’t even take into account the severity of a security breach like this. And an ongoing one at that.”

The head of security, Marsters? Marten? Sam frowns, it’s definitely and ‘M’ name speaks next, his voice hushed and low. “We’ve beefed up security but clearly it hasn’t helped. I think going to the authorities might be a good step.”

They’ve passed by Sam now, still on their way to the elevator bank and he nonchalantly grabs random charts and follows at a discrete distance. Janice from PR is gesturing wildly.

“Are you insane? This is a publicity nightmare. If we go to the police, it will be all over the 5 o’clock news. And they’ll have a fucking field-day with it? Can you imagine the headlines? Blood Bank Break In: Is the Hospital Safe?” She flashes her hands like she’s seeing the words on the page in front of her. “Bleed Out at the Hospital: Possible Satanic Link? Hemorrhaging Hospital: Collinsport General faces Blood Theft.” She shakes her head. “Jesus, we’ll lose some of our biggest patrons.” She jabs at the elevator button with her long red nails. Sam ducks behind the corner and watches them as they wait for the elevator. He can hear his heart thudding in his ears.

“Legal Affairs agrees,” nods Bernadette Newman, her blond bob swaying slightly. “We simply can’t afford this kind of publicity. The risk management analysis is extremely unfavorable.”

“I don’t give a rats ass about the risk management,” snaps Sorenson. “Fifty units of blood have been stolen, _stolen_ , from the bank. Do you know how many lives that is? Not to mention, god only knows what’s being done with it. If we don’t go to the police, how will we explain it when 50 units of blood end up splashed all over some random crime scene? Oops, we just didn’t notice it was gone?”

The elevator doors hiss open and the response from the Chairman of the Board is cut off when they slide shut again on the small conglomeration.

Sam’s stuck where he is, staring at the closed elevator doors.

Jesus.

 _Jesus._

Blood. Missing from the blood bank. Fifty units. _Fifty_.

Castiel Collins and his weird sun allergy.

His even more bizarre lab results. That no one can explain. That experts say can’t come from a _living_ human.

And Dean. Jesus fucking Christ. _Dean_.

But it’s ridiculous. Isn’t it? It can’t possibly be real.

 _They_ can’t possibly be real.

They are things of myth, things of stories, created by stealing snatches of history and unexplained medical phenomena, rolling them together with superstition and the natural human proclivity for storytelling, until they emerged as a fully formed creature of folklore.

 _Vampires_.

It has to be a weird coincidence. Some freak twist of chance. Because if it’s not, if it’s real… and Castiel…. And Dean….

He pulls out his cell phone, ignoring the signs that say to have it off in the hospital and flicks it on, dialing Dean’s phone.

Voicemail. Fuck!

“Hey, Dean, look when you get this can you call me? Or come by the hospital? And can you come home tonight?” Fuck fuck fuck! “Okay, so, yeah. Yeah.” He ends the call and sends a quick text message with the same words.

He’s hearing his name called over the intercom and his pager is buzzing against his hip with the code for triage in the emergency room. He crazily dials the number for the pub and leaves a message for Dean there as well as he catches an elevator.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

***

By four in the afternoon, he still hasn’t heard back from Dean, despite trying his cell several more times. After calling the pub, he finds out that Dean was there but had to drive out to the fish supplier because the latest shipment was bad. He called back again only to find out that the liquor store had sent over a crate of vodka instead of whiskey and Dean had gone to the warehouse to sort it out. Ava assured Sam that Dean had gotten the message on the cell phone and the messages from earlier and had a message of his own.

“He said to stop harassing him or he’ll beat your princess ass and he’ll be home tonight after close.”

Sam feels a surge of relief at Ava’s recitation of the message. Dean is fine, Dean’s okay and he’ll come home tonight.

Where Sam can talk to him.

About his possibly creepy vampire boyfriend.

Fuck.

He’s clocking out of his shift, signing off on the remainder of his charts and wondering exactly how he’s going to kill time until Dean gets home tonight when he’s hit with a crazy thought.

Maybe he should just go see Castiel.

It’s stupid. He can’t just walk up to the man and say ‘Hey, I kind of think you might be a vampire? So, yes or no?’ or ‘You know those blood tests? Yeah, results are in, you’re a blood sucking fiend.’ Or maybe, ‘How’s undead life treating you?’

All of these thoughts should be steering him away from Castiel, but it’s not stopping him from getting into his car and heading out toward Collinwood. He thinks about turning around, about heading home and waiting for Dean, and yet, he finds himself pulling up the long driveway to the old estate. He’s only been on the grounds a handful of times, and only to the new house where Pamela, Becky, Anna, and Ben live. The Collins family is quite generous to the hospital and host charity balls and functions with large checks and as an eligible doctor, he’s pretty much ordered by the hospital board to show up and smile.

He’d heard from Dean and from local gossip that Castiel had restored the old estate but as he sits in his beater car, tapping his fingers on the wheel, he’s having a hard time taking it all in. The place is fucking impressive. The idea of Dean practically living here is mind-boggling.

There’s another car in the drive and Sam’s careful to park in a manner so as not to block it in. He’s staring at it trying to figure out who it belongs to when Chuck Shurley comes out of the front door, closing it behind him like he owns the place.

“Chuck?” Sam questions.

Chuck flinches and turns. “Dr. Winchester?”

“Call me Sam,” Sam says absently. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, me?” Chuck asks reflexively. “I do some stuff, some work for Castiel. Antiquities, research. That kind of thing.”

Chuck’s always been a little jumpy but he’s nearly vibrating as he answers Sam’s question.

“I see,” says Sam. “So, you know him pretty well then?”

“Um, yes?” Chuck answers, as though he’s not sure. “I mean, I do stuff for him and then we meet about it. And I guess we talk.”

Chuck’s inching away from Sam toward his car.

“How long have you known Castiel?”

“Uh, since he got here. We, um, ran into each other, and um, you know, I’ve been out of work lately and he’s new so he needed some help.”

“You seem nervous.”

“What? No, I’m not,” Chuck says quickly. “Totally not. I just, you know. Stuff to do. And I drink a lot of coffee. I’m just a highly excitable person, is all.”

Sam nods but his expression clearly indicates he doesn’t get it. “Dean had mentioned a while back that you didn’t look so good. You know you can come see me if you want. No charge.”

“Oh, what? No, totally not necessary. I was, um, with the flu, you know? But it’s gone now. One hundred percent better. Well, it’s been great but I gotta go.” Chuck’s opening his car door and sliding into the driver’s seat.

Sam has an uneasy feeling about Chuck’s nerves. He remembers Dean telling him briefly that he thought something was wrong with the squirrelly author. That was right when Castiel had first come to town. And it seems that Chuck has been spending a lot of time at Collinwood.

With Castiel.

“Chuck, is there anything maybe that you want to tell me? That you might need to tell me?” Sam asks lowly.

“Uh, no?”

“Because like I said, Dean was worried about you and you can talk to him or you could talk to me. And if I were your doctor anything you said would be in confidence. Like if you were sick or… hurt,” Sam finishes meaningfully.

“That’s really nice of you, Dr… I mean Sam, but I’m good. Tip-top.”

“And Castiel?”

“What about Castiel?” Chuck responds warily.

“If you thought there was something wrong with him, maybe something medical or… something else, you could tell me.” Sam pauses, fixing his gaze on Chuck’s wide eyes. “I would listen. I … I’d believe you.”

The silence hangs between them long enough for it to be uncomfortable until Chuck finally speaks.

“I don’t have anything to say.”

Sam leans in. “Are you sure, Chuck?”

“Castiel has been very good to me.”

“I’m sure he has been. But, if you’re afraid of him, Chuck…”

“I’m not!” Chuck explains loudly. “I’m not,” he repeats. “I mean, yeah, he’s… different. But he’s a good person. He’s been good to me. Look, I have to go. I appreciate it, Sam, I really do. But there’s nothing wrong.”

Sam leans back so Chuck can shut the driver door and watches him drive down the long path. After Chuck’s car has disappeared from view, he turns back to Collinwood. Squaring his shoulders, he steps up to the door and knocks.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting when the door swings open. Atmospheric organ music? Fog pouring out from the door? Hinges creaking ominously? But all that happens is that Castiel Collins is standing in the shadow created by the overhang, wearing dark jeans and a simple blue t-shirt.

And he’s barefoot.

Which kind of makes Sam’s vampire assumption seem a little ridiculous.

“Oh,” blurts Sam.

“Dr. Winchester. Did we have an appointment?” Castiel asks. It’s a question but his tone clearly indicates he knows they did not.

“I wanted to talk to you.” It’s blunt and despite the nature of his visit, he still cringes at his statement.

“Yes?”

“Uh…” Sam draws a blank. He hadn’t really thought about exactly what he was going to say. Blurting out ‘are you a vampire?’ seems really absurd. But at the same time, there’s is a medical mystery going on and Sam needs to know what it is, especially since Dean’s involved.

Watching Sam’s face as he tries to form a question, Castiel’s brows have drawn together. “Would you like to come in?”

“People know I’m here,” Sam says quickly.

Castiel’s eyebrows draw even closer in confusion. “Of course they do,” he replies and Sam’s not quite sure what he means. “Charles, for instance. I’m sure you passed him on your way up.”

“Yeah, well, people other than your… um, your… Charles.”

Castiel nods slowly, as though Sam’s insane. “Very well. I’m sorry, Dr. Winchester, you have me at a loss. As you can tell from my attire, I was not expecting company. About what did you wish to speak?”

“Erm…”

“Is this about Dean?” Castiel asks suddenly and takes a step toward Sam. He winces as it puts him in sunlight for a moment and then quickly retreats back to the shadows of the doorway. “Has something happened to Dean?” Castiel’s long fingers curl around the door, knuckles going even whiter from his grip.

Sam pauses at the concerned tone in Castiel’s voice. “No,” he replies. “Dean’s fine.”

Castiel visibly relaxes, flexing his fingers, nodding to himself. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

“But he is part of the reason I’m here.” Sam watches Castiel’s expression. When he had thought something was wrong with Dean, he’d seemed truly distraught.

“I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Collins,” Sam begins.

“As I mentioned, you may call me Castiel.”

Sam jerks his head in one quick nod and makes a decision. After all, he’s got long legs and it’s a sunny day. Chances are good he can get to the car right? And he can surely drive faster than Castiel can chase him. “Castiel. I want to ask you something and I... want you to tell me the truth. You have no reason to trust me, but I’m going to ask anyway. Because I need to know. For Dean’s sake. And no matter what the answer is, I think you care about him.”

Castiel’s watching Sam carefully now. His face seems to be a mask of reassignment. He cannot read Sam Winchester’s mind, but at this moment, he doesn’t have to. Sam’s tense posture, his wary eyes, his clenched jaw scream volumes at Castiel. “My blood work has returned,” he murmurs.

“Yes.”

“You have come to a conclusion.”

“Yes.”

Castiel sighs. “Ask your question, Dr. Winchester. Though you know you will not like the answer.”

“Are you a vampire?” There it is. Out in the open. Sam’s entire body tenses to break into a sprint for the car.

“Yes, I am.”

They stand there for a full two minutes, neither one saying anything. Castiel does not blink, but Sam’s eyelids flutter as his brain processes the answer. It seems so ridiculous and he half suspects that at any moment, this stone-faced, blue-eyed _creature_ will ludicrously break into a grin and say _Gotcha!_ and then clap him on the shoulder and give him a good tease for his insane question.

But Castiel does not move. It’s the first time Sam has been truly aware of his _otherness_. When people don’t move, they still sway slightly, or their fingers twitch, their chest rises and falls with respiration. But Castiel is a statue. His immobility is unnatural.

But strangely, not frightening.

“Does Dean know?”

“He does not.” Castiel’s expression is complex. Perhaps sad or troubled.

“Do you drink blood?” Sam asks quietly.

“Yes.” Castiel still does not blink.

“Dean’s blood?” Sam’s voice rises.

“No. Not once.”

“How can I believe you?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel answers simply. He does move this time, one shoulder going gently up and down in a shrug.

“Chuck?”

Castiel pauses at that. “Charles has been a gracious donor.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up at the terminology. “You’ve… drunk Chuck’s blood?”

“Yes. Although not recently.”

“The blood bank,” Sam states knowingly.

“Just so.”

There’s another full minute of silence.

“Are you going to kill me?” Sam questions.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Castiel’s face flashes for a moment on an expression of hurt and grief. “Because I am not a killer. I … have killed,” he says slowly, regretfully and Sam flinches. “Many years ago. But I do not need to kill to survive and I won’t kill you.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you come to me?”

Castiel’s eyes flicker away from Sam, to some distant point over Sam’s shoulder or perhaps even further. “I thought… It seems so foolish now. I thought that perhaps modern science could cure me. That there could be a treatment for my… affliction. Though that hardly seems viable now.”

Sam fidgets back forth on his feet for a moment wondering if he’s crazy, or under some kind of bizarre vampiric influence. “To be honest, I haven’t started working on your condition. I’ve only reviewed the results of your tests. There may be a treatment.”

Castiel’s eyes seem to brighten. “You would search for a treatment? You would assist me?”

Sam pauses. “I don’t know if I can. I could try. But… you have to do something for me.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “I will never turn you.”

“Jesus, no!” Sam yelps, horrified, holding his hands up like that would hold Castiel back. “That’s not what I was going to say. I… you have to tell Dean. I can’t… I won’t lie to him. And he needs to know. He deserves to know. And he deserves to hear it from you.”

“I know,” replies Castiel simply, forlornly. He looks so miserable at that moment.

“If you don’t tell him, I will. But… It should be you.” Sam grimaces thinking about having to tell Dean this, if Dean would even believe him and not just immediately assume it was some kind of prank. He also wonders briefly about the wisdom of seemingly ordering a vampire to do something, but Castiel is simply nodding softly to himself.

“Yes, of course,” Castiel says lowly. “I have… struggled with telling him, but you are right. He deserves to know.”

“You, uh, you didn’t um…” Sam fidgets again. “I mean, he seems really happy and that’s real, right? You didn’t put a whammy on him or something?”

“Certainly not.”

“I mean, it’s not like I could do much about it even if you did. I’m pretty sure if I went screaming into town that you’re a vampire they’d revoke my medical license. To start with. Because it sounds totally crazy. I’m not crazy right? You’re not just fucking with me?”

“Would you like to see my fangs?” Castiel asks, a faint smiling pulling at his lips.

Sam laughs nervously. “Haha, uh, no. Jesus, no,” he finishes quickly. “That’s… um. Wow, that’s not necessary. I’ll probably have to see them eventually for an exam but I think that I’ve reached my freakout-o-meter for today.”

“I don’t think I’ll tire of learning modern colloquialisms for some time,” Castiel says with a trace of fondness.

Sam has a sudden thought “How old are you?”

“I was born in 1786.”

“Fuck me,” Sam breathes and then remembers that he’s a _professional_ dammit. “I mean, impressive.” He takes a second to process the information. “So that’s _you_ in the portrait in the Collins’ house! Not your ancestor. You.”

“Yes.”

“Jesus.”

“If you are serious about treating me, Dr. Winchester, then perhaps you would like to come in?”

Castiel steps aside, leaving room for Sam to come in or not. Sam hesitates. He’s no idiot. He’s got a healthy dose of fear and a solid instinct for survival. For all intents and purposes, Castiel is not human. Not entirely at any rate. His mind flips through all the mythology and fiction he knows about vampires. Is he foolish to consider not just stepping inside, but jumping with both feet right into the rabbit hole? The medical mystery is tantalizing. How does Castiel survive? How was he created? How invulnerable is he? How much of the myths and stories are true? Is it possible to treat him? How much knowledge can he share with Sam?

Then there is Dean. If Sam could cure Castiel and he could be a normal human… If Sam could do this not only for scientific reasons but for Dean…

Sam’s lips curve up in a small, hesitant but genuine smile. He takes a step forward.

“As I said before, you can call me Sam.”

***

Dean can’t stop thinking about Ben’s story.

About Ruby.

His thoughts wander while he’s working and sometimes he’s realizes he’s been staring at the payroll screen of his laptop for a full thirty minutes without keying anything in -- which isn’t nearly as bad as the other day when he almost fed his hand into the meat grinder.

He doesn’t think about anything in particular, just keeps replaying Ben’s story over in his head. Over and over, in a bizarre loop, he sees the pictures his brain has conjured up to go with the narrative. He pictures long black, wavy hair and dark, inky eyes that simultaneously make him shudder with fear and rage.

The fear he kind of gets. Ben’s story was pretty clear; Ruby was not a nice person. But the rage… the rage is… disconcerting. Odd. It feels strange to be so angry about a person, _a character_ , in a story. Sure, he’s been involved in fiction before and he likes movies and books as much as the next person, but he’s never let anything like this stick with him like this.

It’s been over a week since the camping trip and Dean is still seeing voodoo dolls in his mind’s eye with tufts of hair and buttons sewn on them.

He’s tired tonight. He hasn’t been sleeping well since the trip and it’s starting to catch up with him. He’s having strange dreams that he can’t remember when he wakes. He gets vague impressions of things; docks by the seaside, crates, men talking, shouting, the startling blue of Cas’ eyes.

Sometimes he thinks he sees fangs, a half-formed impression of teeth that leaves him uneasy and… sad, he thinks.

Which is beyond weird.

He cuts off a sigh and focuses on what he’s doing. He’s been closing the pub for a week now and has three nights more to go until he switches off with Andy and Ash. He finds that it’s when the pub’s closed down, chairs stacked on the tables and lights dimmed low that, that he’s most distracted. He’ll wipe up the same area of the bar several times over, forgetting that it only needs a cursory wipe since Ava keeps it spotless. He empties out the VLT machines and mindlessly bundles the bills, adding in the cash from the register before closing down the debit and credit machines. Twice he blanks out on keying in the correct sequence and has to start again.

He mentioned to Cas that he’s going home tonight, to his own place. Sam left a message and Dean feels bad for not spending time with him lately. Plus, Cas hasn’t said anything, but Dean’s been pretty much living at Cas’, and he feels like maybe he should give them a break before Cas decides they need one. It’ll be good to check in with Sammy and sleep in his own bed for a night.

It’ll probably be good for Cas to get a good night’s sleep too. Every night Dean’s either being shaken awake by Cas or jerking awake of his own volition, disturbing Cas in the process. The strange nightmares crawling across his brain in technicolor every night.

Cas hasn’t said anything about it, but Dean feels awkward. He feels kind of like some sort of nut case and he figures he should spend a night, or two, away from Cas before Cas gets around to asking him to.

He carefully stacks the bills from the VLT machine into his worn money sack letting his mind zone out on counting out stacks of one-hundred and wrapping elastics around them twice. He resets the machines and heads down to the basement.

The basement of the pub would probably win an award for creepy atmosphere. Unfinished and incomplete, the plumbing drops down from the ceiling and sometimes the old pipes groan and squeak. The stairs are slim and dark since Dean never bothers to replace the bulb at the top of the stairs. He figures anyone who doesn’t know how many stairs there are doesn’t belong in the basement and deserves to break their neck on the way down. He’s never minded the basement before and in fact, kind of enjoyed its off-kilter atmosphere, but since the camping trip, he feels slightly edgy and finds himself picking his way carefully down the stairs, suddenly ridiculously worried that after all these years, he will be the one that ends up falling, his broken body only coming to a dead stop after it has careened its way down the steep flight.

Once he gets the image of himself twisted and battered, he can’t seem to shake it. He hustles through setting up the cash float for tomorrow, balancing the tills and rebooting the computer system.

He grabs a finished pizza that he left on the counter earlier, a late, late dinner for himself and maybe Sam if he’s still up. He’s fumbling for his keys, trying to juggle the pizza and the money sack when the hair on the back of his neck rises. He’s always had good instincts and he pays attention to them. His eyes sweep the deserted parking lot, trying to discern the shapes he recognizes from ones that shouldn’t be there.

Nothing jumps out at him, figuratively or literally. He slides into the driver’s seat, tossing the pizza on the passenger side and thumps his thumbs on the steering wheel a couple of times, wondering if he should hang out for a bit or not. After a few minutes when the hairs on the back of his neck start to settle, he shakes his head at his own jumpiness and drives off.

He heads home and smiles when he sees Sam’s beater car in the driveway and the flickering lights in the window, indicating the TV is on. Sam sits up from the sofa as Dean steps through the front door.

“Oh, do I know you?” Sam asks. There’s a tightness around his eyes that wasn’t there the last time Dean saw him and he kicks himself for not coming home to check on Sammy sooner.

“Ha ha, princess. I brought pizza,” Dean replies, holding the box up as proof.

“Oh my God, it _is_ you,” Sam says with mock surprise. “You still live here?”

“Keep laughing it up and you’ll get no pizza.” Dean’s toe-ing off his shoes and Sam takes the opportunity to snatch the pizza out of his hands.

It’s a ‘no talking zone’ while they dish out slices of pizza and stuff themselves with cheesy goodness, the only sound being an affirmative grunt when Sam raises his eyebrows and points at the fridge. He comes back with two beers, sliding one across the table to Dean.

“Off duty?” Dean asks, gesturing at the drink.

“Yeah, got off earlier today. Just watching some tv.”

“What’s up at the hospital?”

They haven’t done this in a while; sat around the kitchen table catching up with each other. Dean feels a little stab of guilt when he realizes he hasn’t really spent that much time with Sam since he met Cas. He’s actually a little surprised Sam hasn’t been giving him more shit about it. He listens patiently while Sam tells him the minutiae of the hospital; nameless cases and idle gossip. In turn he tells Sam about the goings on at the pub. He has no gossip to speak of since he really never pays that much attention to it.

The pizza’s gone and they’re both just finishing off their beers when Sam does his throat clearing thing.

“So, uh, Castiel Collins, huh.”

Dean frowns at expectant look Sam gives him. Sam ducks his head a little and again Dean notices the tightness around Sam’s eyes, in his jaw. “Is there a question in there?”

Sam twirls his beer bottle back and forth between his hands while he thinks. “Just, uh, you know. Wondering how things are going?”

“Things are good,” Deans answers, smile automatically coming to his face.

“Good, that’s good.”

Sam’ fingers drum restlessly on the table and he opens and closes his mouth a few times before he speaks again.

“So, you’re happy, then? With Castiel I mean?”

Dean eyeballs him sideways. “Yeah,” he says warily. This is about as close to a heart-to-heart they’ve had in years. Dean hasn’t seen Sam this nervous since John pulled him away from ‘The Goonies’ when he was twelve to have ‘the talk’ with him about girls.

“Nothing weird is going on or anything?”

“No. Why?”

“Nothing,” Sam backpedals at Dean’s expression. “Just, uh, wanted to check in with you. Haven’t seen you much lately. You know.”

“Jesus, is this a sharing moment? Are you trying to get me to share?” He says the word like it’s foreign and bizarre.

Sam stills. “Why? Is there something you feel like you need to share?” he asks carefully.

“No.” Dean scowls at him. “I’ve been spending a lot of time at Cas’. So what? I like spending time there.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were, you know, okay?”

“Seriously. What’s with the ‘After school special’ talk? Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

Sam shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “No reason.”

Dean’s still giving him the hairy eyeball. “Uh-huh.”

“And, uh, how’s Castiel?”

“Cas is fine. I’m fine, he’s fine, we’re all fine,” Dean says, frowning at Sam. “Except you, apparently.”

“What? Can’t I ask about your life?”

“You asked, I told you but you’re all…” he makes a chopping motion with his hands, “… with the questions.”

“What? I’m just curious.”

“You’ve met him,” Dean replied back quickly. “I’m not keeping him hidden or anything.”

“Seeing him at the hospital as a patient doesn’t count,” said Sam just as fast.

Dean paled a bit. “Oh, fuck. Is that what this is about? Did you find something? Is he sick?”

“No, Dean, I…” Sam starts.

“Is he _dying_?”

“I can’t discuss any results that may or may not have come in with you. Jesus, he’s a patient.”

“I swear to Christ, Sam, if he’s dying and you don’t tell me-”

“He’s not fucking dying, alright.” _Jesus, far from it._ “Fuck, you’re such a drama queen.” Sam takes a long swig from his beer to keep from saying anything more.

“ _I’m_ a drama queen? You’re the one making me think my boyfriend is dying!”

At that loud burst, the kitchen falls silent. Dean fidgets. Sam squirms. The ‘sharing circle’ has never been a comfortable place at casa de Winchester.

“Is he?” asks Sam.

“Is he what?” counters Dean.

“Your, you know, boyfriend?”

Dean pauses like he’s trying the word on. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I think he is.”

“And you really are happy?”

“I will punch you.”

Sam tosses his hands up. “All right, fine. I’m done.”


	16. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 16 - The Reckoning

Castiel does not require much sleep, and so, it is not as frustrating for him as it is for humans when sleep will not come. He does not find sleep particularly restorative and he is often plagued by dreams that contain too many things supernatural and unearthly. He does not miss sleep when he cannot have it.

His routine sleep is different from his near hibernation, in which he was engaged when awoken by Charles Shirley. That repose was closer to… death than to sleep.

So he is not overwrought when he cannot sleep that night, when thoughts of Dean keep him awake. Overwrought is not a feeling he has needed to contend with since… well, not for a very long time.

But he is somewhat haunted by his thoughts. In his mind, he imagines all sorts of ways he can tell Dean the truth of his nature. He has no illusions that it will be as simple as telling Sam Winchester ‘yes,’ nor as quick and obvious as starting to feed on Charles Shurley.

The first seems so clinical and detached. The second is horrid.

Nor will it be at all like when Dean found out the first time, and for that he is both grateful and regretful - grateful he doesn’t have to stare at Dean’s failing body, bloody and broken, and tell him what he’s done, regretful that he will not be able to easily explain his motivations, which needed no explanation when he was first turned. His reasons had been all too obvious and devastating.

Though he feels he knows Dean, knows him intimately, inside and out, backward and forward, past and present, he is at a loss to predict how Dean will react. Will he be suspicious? Horrified? Angry? Will he laugh at the absurdity of it? Refuse to believe it?

He keeps his bedroom dark, but he can still tell without the antique clock on his nightstand that he has been awake all night. He can feel the sunrise in his bones - a fine tingling along his spine that warns him not to rush out exposed. He knew that Dean would not be at Collinwood tonight, having been asked home by Sam. He also knows that Sam promised not to say anything to Dean in order for Castiel to have the chance to speak with him. But Sam had been adamant, (or as adamant as one is comfortable being with a vampire), that Castiel has a very short window in which to tell Dean the truth, and if Castiel doesn’t do it, then Sam will.

While he has been putting off telling Dean, Castiel knows that Sam is right. Dean must know, and Castiel must be the one who tells him.

Daybreak has not cut the infinite circle of his thoughts, but the strange, still unfamiliar beep of his newly acquired cellphone does.

 _Admit it, u r totally lost without me_

His lips curl in a small smile at the black letters on the tiny screen and with infinite patience, he types out a response, a task that is so new to him it is traumatically slow. He wants to type that he _did_ dearly miss Dean. That he is troubled by things he needs to say. That he does not know how to say what needs to be said. But he also knows Dean and knows such words may perhaps be too cutting. Too honest.

Instead, he writes something he thinks will make Dean smile. It takes a long time to press all the miniscule keys, but he relishes the task. He knows that at this very moment, Dean is staring at his phone, thinking of him.

 _Of course I am. Pray tell, what is your name again?_

Dean’s response is lightening fast; his ease with the technology apparent.

 _:P_

Castiel frowns for a moment until he remembers Charles explaining emotional icons.

It had been an extremely convoluted lesson.

He sends back what he believes to be an appropriate response.

 _: - |_

Dean’s reply is again quick. _ha. So I’ll c u tonite after I close?_

Castiel hesitates, trailing his fingers over the small screen of his phone. He does not want to say yes. He cannot say no.

 _Yes._

 _;)_

He smiles again at the silly punctuation, imaging the wink on Dean’s face, his expression full of amusement as he types.

He wishes he could see it in person one more time before tonight.

***

It’s been a busy day for Pamela. With her husband and his brother gone, running the family business has fallen to her, Anna, and Becky. But with Anna’s sensitive artistic nature and Becky’s lack of attention, the bulk of it falls on Pam’s shoulders. Normally, she doesn’t mind. She’s got a sharp brain and her psychic sense has served her well in the past.

Not that she’s mentioned _that_ to the board of directors. They just think she’s got a head for business and a body for sin.

She actually heard someone quote the scene from ‘Working Girl’ one day. Of course, they hadn’t said it out loud, but she didn’t always just listen with her ears.

It took a while after her husband’s disappearance for the board to take her seriously, but once they realized she wasn’t just playing at it, and they got a glimpse of the formidable brain behind the looks, things started falling into place. Now, they present all major decisions before her.

Which is why she’s exhausted at two in the morning and can’t sleep, trying to sort out if they should proceed with the latest acquisition.

She slides out of bed and pads downstairs to the drawing room, turning on only a few lights. She absently shuffles her tarot deck as she ponders the latest business questions, focusing her thoughts on the deck, and settling in for a reading.

The hard backed chairs aren’t exactly comfortable but they’ll do, and she scooches it a bit closer while she decides on what layout to use. She takes a moment to center herself and starts laying out cards, face down, in a simple European layout of seven, dealt right to left. She flips them over one at a time.

She frowns. It sometimes takes her one or two hands to work up to a reading, but the cards she’s just dealt are a mess. No connection, no relevance at all to the problem at hand. She slides them back together and shuffles, dealing again.

She taps her finger absently as she stares at the cards laid out in front of her. She’s never had two such convoluted spreads back to back. She pushes the laid out cards to the side, rests her fingertips on the remaining deck and pauses. She’s never been one to look a gift muse in the mouth.

“Am I asking the wrong questions?” she says softly. She turns three cards over. The answer is unequivocally yes.

She takes a moment to consider her next question.

“Is this about business or family?” She turns over one card.

Family.

“Ben or the girls?” She turns over another card.

No.

She doesn’t have a lot of family and once you take away the people living in the house, that leaves her missing husband, her missing brother in law and…

“Castiel?” She deals again.

Yes.

She nods to herself. Feeling like she has a place to start, she focuses on Castiel and shuffles the cards, relaxing into the soft swoosh of the deck over itself and the rhythm of shifting. She takes one more calming breath, while she ponders her layout.

“All right,” she murmurs quietly to the darkened room. She lays out her cards in a simple Celtic Cross. “Let’s see what you have to say about Castiel.”

***

When his phone rings at half past two, he expects it to be Dean, telling him he cannot make it to Collinwood tonight. He steals himself for the disappointment, lets the resignation wash over him.

“Yes?” he answers.

“Castiel, it’s Pamela. Is Dean with you?”

“No,” he answers simply, surprised at her calling at this hour and at her tone.

“Where is he?” Her voice is rushed and tense. He can feel the anxiety creeping over the phone and settling into his spine. He sits up in his chair.

“I believe he is still closing at the pub. Why? What is wrong?”

“You need to go there. Now.”

“Pamela…”

“Go. Now.”

He drops the phone without ending the call.

***

Dean takes one last look around the interior of the pub, eyes flickering over the cleaned tables and chairs. Satisfied, he flips off the lights, zips the money bag shut and stuffs it in the inside pocket of his denim jacket. It hardly fits but it doesn’t matter. He’s just on his way to Collinwood.

He sets the alarm and hustles outside into the cool night, turning around to lock the door.

He feels something cold at the back of his neck and his mind has a second to process _gun_ before he hears a voice.

“Hand the bag over.”

His back to his assailant, Dean doesn’t turn around. His keys are still hanging from the deadbolt as he lifts his hand in a gesture not so much of ‘hey, I surrender’ as it is one of ‘hey, I’m not gonna hurt you.’

“Hey, man,” he says rather calmly. “Why don’t you just walk away and we’ll call it no-harm, no-foul.”

The barrel moves from his neck to his back and digs in. “The bag.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Dean lies. There’s over twenty grand in the sack from the VLTs and if he hands it over… he’s got insurance, but that’s not the point. This is his business, his livelihood, his _place_.

It’s not like he thinks his life is worth less than the twenty grand. He’s not even really thinking that far. He just knows that he works hard, his staff works hard, and this is _his_ money.

“I’m not asking twice.”

Dean’s just turning his head to the side, just about to glance over his shoulder and get a better handle on the situation when he hears the mugger make a sort of ‘oof’ sound and the pressure at his back is gone. He turns around and he’s not sure what he’s more surprised by - that someone else is there, or that it’s Cas.

Cas has his back to Dean and is stalking slowly toward the guy that seconds ago had a gun pressed up against Dean’s back. The mugger is on the ground, face hidden by a mask, legs and arms scrambling backward, like a spider in his attempt to gain purchase from where he must have… fallen? Stumbled? Dean’s actually not all that sure how he got so far away from them.

Dean sees the gun on the ground, close to the man’s hand. His eyes widen and he only has time to shout Cas’ name before the assailant has got the gun in his grip and is pulling the trigger.

Cas’ shoulder jerks slightly once backward, but he doesn’t stop moving forward. He flinches again at the next sound of a gunshot and Dean might have shouted ‘no’ but he’s not certain if he just thought it or if he actually said it out loud.

And then Cas is reaching toward the man, grabbing the gun by the muzzle and just tossing it aside like it’s a toy he’s finished playing with. He leans over the man, grabs his head, and snaps it sharply around.

It’s strangely anti-climactic to watch the mugger fall to the side in a boneless heap, and Dean doesn’t know what Cas _did_. Cas turns back to Dean, moving grimly toward him. Dean’s eyes drift to the red blossom spread across Cas’ shoulder and another one seeping from his torso, into the waistband of his pants. He reaches out to touch one of the wet splotches, his fingertips coming back sticky and crimson.

“Jesus Christ,” he finally manages. Dean had seen the shots, seen Cas’ body flinch, but he assumed the mugger’s bullets had gone wide when Cas didn’t go down. “You’ve been shot.”

“Are you hurt?”

Cas’ hands clasp his shoulders tightly, just shy of painfully, and the contact snaps Dean into action. He starts fumbling for his pocket, his cell phone.

“I’ll call Sam or 911 or… no, Sam. I can get you to the hospital faster than the ambulance can get here and Sam will meet us there. He’ll know which doctors to ask for. Jesus. Can you walk to the car? Holy fuck…” He’s got his phone out of his pocket, trying to dial Sam’s number, distracted by the bloody fingerprints he’s leaving on the keypad.

Castiel snatches the phone away from him. “I’m fine. Are you hurt?”

“Jesus, no, I’m not hurt,” Dean blurts loudly. “And you’re not fine, you’ve been shot. You’re probably in shock or something. But it’s fine,” Dean forces his voice to go calm and soothing. “It’s fine. We’ll go to the hospital and it will be fine. Give me the phone.”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“Castiel,” Dean says lowly, using his full name. “We’re going to get into the car, and then I’m going to drive to the hospital.” _Instead of standing here while you bleed out,_ he wants to add. Fuck, he doesn’t know how much time they have, how much shock and blood loss are a factor here. He should probably put something on the wound. His fingers slide up Castiel’s arm, over to his shoulder, pulling at the fabric of his shirt. “Here, let me see -”

He stills as he pulls the shirt aside and sees blood stained skin. And only blood stained skin.

No wound, no bullet hole.

It’s not like he’s seen a gunshot wound before but he knows there should be _something_. Torn skin, more blood.

There isn’t. There isn’t anything. Just a faint mark, the skin pink and shiny where Dean’s pretty sure a bullet hole should be.

“Dean…”

Castiel’s voice is low and even. Reluctant. Dean flicks his eyes up to Cas’ and then back down, pulling the shirt farther away, searching the rest of Cas’ shoulder.

“Dean, we should return to Collinwood.”

Dean spares him a confused and mutinous glance before pulling Cas shirt out of his waistband and lifting it up, searching for the second bullet hole and finding nothing but seamless bloody skin.

Dean drops the edge of the shirt and takes a step backward, his spine meeting the steel door of the pub. His keys, still in the lock jam into his shoulder-blade.

“What the fuck?”

“Let us return to Collinwood,” Cas says simply. He reaches out for Dean’s elbow and Dean jerks it away.

“You were shot. I saw you get shot. I _saw_.”

Castiel is silent, eyes watching Dean, expression carefully neutral.

Dean’s got one hand up, keeping Cas from taking another step toward him. Either he’s crazy and he didn’t really see Cas get shot, or…

He’s not really sure what the other option is.

“There’s blood all over your shirt. You were shot,” Dean repeats.

Finally, Castiel nods once. “Yes.”

He doesn’t know how to react to that admission. He’s somewhat relieved that he’s not gone completely bat-shit and seeing things. On the other hand, that means that Cas was shot and is now… not wounded.

“Please, let us go to Collinwood. We can speak there.”

“No. You tell me what the fuck just happened. Right here. Now.”

Castiel’s shoulders slump. Of all the ways he imagined telling Dean, doing so in the parking lot of the Winchester pub had never crossed his mind. He imagined them having this conversation ensconced in the warm environment of Collinwood, where he could sit down and take the time to explain everything fully, where he could answer any and all of Dean’s questions.

But standing in the half-light from the lone streetlamp, seeing Dean stare at him, wary and suspicious before he even began, was not at all what he anticipated.

“I am…” Castiel begins, his voice halting. He shifts slightly on his feet. “I am not… entirely… not quite…”

Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“I am not mortal,” Castiel says, lifting his shoulders..

“You’re not _what_?” Dean shoots back incredulously.

“Mortal. I am not mortal.”

Dean looks skeptical at best, ready to lunge at Castiel at worst.

“What are you?” Dean’s voice doesn’t come out shaky at all, which is impressive, since he’s pretty sure his insides are vibrating. He knows what Castiel is about to say, he _knows_ it. The sunlight allergy, his nearly archaic mannerisms, the absence of any wounds, the painting in at the new Collins house… All these things seem to come together at once, like a broken mirror coalescing in front of him and he knows that Castiel will only be able to give one, impossible, ridiculous answer.

“A vampire.”

Dean doesn’t mean to laugh, but laugh he does, a breathy chuckle that bubbles up his esophagus and floats out into the night.

“Of course. Of course you fucking are.” He doesn’t know why he said that. He didn’t even mean to speak, but the words came out.

“Dean…”

“Don’t.” Dean’s tone is sharp and resolute. “Don’t you fucking say one. More. Word.” Jesus, he needs to think. He just needs to _think_ about this.

“Come to Collinwood, and I’ll explain everything. I promise.”

“You promise? That’s fucking rich. Where was this burning desire for honesty, I don’t know, say when we met?”

Part of Dean wants to get in the car and go to Collinwood and have everything explained. The other part of him wants to punch Castiel in the face for lying. He’s not sure which reaction is more absurd - to follow Castiel to Collinwood or punch him the mouth for saying he’s a vampire.

While his brain is warring between the two options, he has the stray thought neither of those responses is correct.

Shouldn’t he be afraid?

He doesn’t feel afraid.

“You don’t know what it has been like. You don’t know the entire truth.”

Castiel’s words come to him as though down a long tunnel and he forces himself to pay attention.

“I don’t want to know the truth.” Which is a lie. Dean does want to know the truth but it’s like his anger is in control of what’s coming out of his mouth and he can’t stop it. Jesus, he just needs to _think_

Castiel stills. “Yes, you do. Of course you do,” he says quietly, earnestly.

“No, I really fucking think I don’t.”

“Dean. Please. Come to Collinwood with me. I will answer any question you ask, tell you anything you want to know.”

“No.”

“This doesn’t change what we are to each other.”

“We’re not anything to each other. Not anymore.” Dean shakes his head firmly. The two halves of him are still warring with each other. One half cheering _’Fuck yeah! You tell him!’_ and the other half pleading with his mouth to _shut the fuck up_.

Castiel looks so defeated and the mean part of Dean continues to cheer while the other part wants him to take it back and tell Cas he didn’t mean it and he’ll come to Collinwood and listen.

“You don’t mean that. You can’t… You don’t know what I’ve… what we’ve…”

“I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to get in my car and go home and you’re not gonna call me and you’re not gonna stop by.” He has a brief moment when he thinks, _wow, I’m giving orders to a vampire._

“I will give you time but please let me explain first.”

“No, this is not ‘time’, this the end.”

It’s Castiel’s turn to laugh this time, a quiet, sad huff that makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up. “It’s never the end for me. I waited two hundred years. And I’ll wait two hundred more. All I can do is wait.”

Dean shakes his head. Castiel’s words are confusing and he just wants to push them out of his mind, not listen to the tone of his voice.

“I need to leave,” Dean says, more to himself than to Cas. “Will you stop me?” His eyes are hard as they meet Castiel’s and Castiel simply takes a step off to the side.

“Of course not. I would never force you to do anything.”

Dean still watches him warily as he steps forward, toward the Impala. His footsteps stutter as he comes to the body of the mugger. It still hasn’t moved; Cas _killed_ someone.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“Go,” he hears Castiel say behind him, sotto voice. “I shall take care of it.”

He’s not sure if he’s grateful and relieved by that or horrified and scandalized. He doesn’t turn around again as he crosses the parking lot to the car, but he can feel Castiel’s gaze on him the entire way. He turns his head just as he pulls out of the lot and sees Castiel still standing where he left him, staring after him.

***

Castiel spends a long time standing in the darkened parking lot.

He’s not sure how long, exactly.

The night is cool and still.

And lonely.

He considered that this might be one of the outcomes. That Dean wouldn’t even let him explain.

He had hoped it wouldn't be the case.

What he hadn’t anticipated was not actually getting the chance to gentle the news at all. Instead, it was presented to Dean in a most gruesome way.

He knows he has to take care of the mugger’s body. While it’s not something he looks forward to, it is something he can do rather easily.

He knows he should do it now, do it quickly, while there is no one yet about.

And he will.

But right now, all he can do is stand, in the dark, staring after the road that Dean drove away on.

***  
Sam hears Dean come in the front door, hears the dull ‘thunk’ of the money bag hitting the floor, which in itself is not an unfamiliar sound, but the lack of cursing and bitching following it is unusual for Dean. He hears Dean drop his jacket on the floor before he hears the tell-tale clomping of Dean’s booted feet crushing the carpeted stairs.

He pauses outside the door, hesitating long enough to hear the mattress squeak, but the light under the door stays on.

He knocks sharply on the door.

“Fuck off, Sammy.”

Sam opens the door anyway and pokes his head in. “I wasn’t expecting you home tonight.”

“Well, here I am. Now fuck off.”

Undeterred, Sam stays put. “Um, something wrong?”

“No. Fuck off.”

Sam pushes the door the rest of the way open and leans against the jamb. His fingers twitch nervously before he finally crosses his arms over his chest. This might not even be about Castiel. Maybe Castiel hasn’t even told Dean yet. But Dean _was_ supposed to go to Collinwood tonight and now he’s home. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to blurt anything out if Castiel _hasn’t_ told Dean yet.

He suddenly understands circular soap opera dialogue.

He thought about it all day, wondering what he would do when Dean found out. He went around and around in his head for hours, and what it always came down to was how happy Dean had been lately. Sam didn’t think he had seen Dean that happy in… ever. Certainly not as an adult. And if Castiel made Dean that happy, then Sam didn’t care what he was.

Although the vampire thing was still a little tough to swallow. Who saw that one coming?

Staring at Dean face down on his bed, Sam is torn. Should he ask Dean if Castiel spoke to him? Should he play it cool? Should he leave Dean alone until Dean comes to him?

He immediately nixes that last idea because Dean would come to him to talk about half past never. If he wants Dean to talk to him, he’s gotta do it old-school - play pesky little brother.

“So, what’s up?”

“What part of ‘fuck off’ are you not getting?” Dean’s still face down on his bed, his voice coming out mumbled and fuzzy.

“Did something happen at the restaurant?” Sam asks, playing dumb.

Dean pushes himself up and glares at Sam. “Jesus Christ, I thought you went to university. Fuck off means ‘go away.’”

Sam shifts from one foot to the other. “You seem upset.”

“Well if I am, it’s my own goddamn business,” Dean spits out, turning his back on Sam and flopping down on his bed again.

“Sooooooo, what’s going on?” Sam pesters. He’s got to be careful or it will end in fisticuffs. Over the years, he’s learned how far he can push Dean before it ends in a couple of good solid punches. He figures he has about two more minutes before they reach boiling point.

“None. Of. Your. Fucking. Business.”

“Touchy, touchy,” replies Sam easily, stepping into the room and perching on the corner of Dean’s bed. “So listen,” he says, deciding to go for the old ‘distract and pounce’ tactic. “Can I borrow the Impala this weekend?”

“No,” Dean replies automatically still speaking to the mattress.

“C’mon. I gotta drive out of town and my car probably won’t make it.”

“Tough shit.”

“It’s not like you’ll be really using it anyway. Isn’t Ash closing this weekend? And you spend most of your time lately at Collinwood -”

“Well not this fucking weekend.” Dean’s response is abrupt and terse.

“Oh?” feigns Sam. “Why not?”

“That’s over.”

“Really?” Sam asks. “‘cause last night it was all ‘he’s fine and I’m fine and he’s my boyfriend.’”

“Not anymore.”

Jesus, it’s like pulling teeth from a chicken. Sam rolls his eyes, grateful that Dean can’t see. “I thought you were happy. You seemed really happy.”

There’s a pause, and Sam wonders if he’s pushing too hard or not hard enough. “I was.”

“So….?”

An even longer pause stretches out and Sam’s not sure if it’s going to end with Dean telling him to fuck off again or not. Dean’s whole body tenses and Sam tenses in return, ready to dodge out of the way of a flying fist, but all that happens is that Dean pushes himself up and swings his leg off the side of the bed so he’s sitting.

“Found out he was lying to me.”

Sam pauses what he considers an appropriate amount of time before speaking. “About what?”

Dean shrugs, looking down at his hands hanging between his knees.

“Is he, um, cheating on you?” Sam’s face screws up as he asks it. If that were the case, that would come dangerously close to them having a serious conversation about sex and that shit could get awkward.

“No,” Dean says quickly.

 _Think of another question, think of another question._ “Did he steal from you?”

“No,” Dean replies, not as quickly but somewhat morosely. “Nothing like that.”

“So, uh, what is it?”

Dean sighs long and deep. “You’re not gonna believe it. Hell, I don’t know if I even believe it and I was there, I saw…”

“What did you see, Dean?” Sam’s voice is quiet. Dean’s head is hanging low, gaze turned downward and Sam leans forward waiting for him to speak. He glances down at Dean’s hands and sees the tell-tale reddish-brown that he’s intimately familiar with from work.

“Is that blood? Do you have blood on your hands?” Sam asks, tensing up again.

“Yeah,” Dean says on an exhale.

“Are you hurt?”

“S’not mine. It’s Castiel’s.”

So it’s ‘Castiel’ now and not ‘Cas.’ Sam gives Dean another minute, but Dean remains silent.

“Dean, what’s going on?”

Dean shakes his head. “It’s crazy, man. Abso-fucking-lutely crazy. You’re not gonna believe it,” Dean repeats.

Sam swallows. “Try me.”

Dean lets out a wry laugh and his expression screams, _okay, but you asked for it_.

“Turns out, he’s a vampire.”

Sam forces his face to remain completely blank for a moment and then lets his eyebrows shoot up.

“I swear to God, Sammy,” Dean barrels on, not waiting for a response, “I am not even making this shit up. Un-fucking-believable.”

“How did, uh…” Sam fidgets. “How did you find out? I mean, did he tell you?”

“He kind of had to when I saw him get shot.”

“What?” Sam exclaims.

“Yeah, mugger at the pub,” Dean says, like it’s ludicrous. “Fucker was gonna rob me blind and all of a sudden Cas… Castiel is there and…” Dean makes a sort of chopping motion with his hands. “And there’s gunfire and I was doing a pretty good job of not freaking the fuck out and he’s got blood on him and the mugger is dead and I was gonna call you or 9-1-1 - I didn’t know -”

“You should always call 9-1-1. They’re equipped to handle emergency situations,” Sam interjects without thinking and Dean gives him a look.

“Not the point, Sam.”

“No, I … sorry. Go on.”

“Well he’d been shot but there was no - “ again, Dean sweeps his hands over his chest. “And I asked him what the fuck and then he up and says he’s a vampire.”

Sam waits for Dean to say more but there’s nothing.

“That’s, um. Wow.”

Dean looks at him sideways and Sam tries not to, but he squirms a little bit. This is just like that time when he was twelve and he’d wanted to poke around in Dean’s room, trying desperately to figure out how to be as cool as his older brother and without even stepping foot in the bedroom, Dean just _knew_ that Sam had been up to something.

“You knew,” Dean says lowly.

“Huh? What?”

“You knew. You fucking already knew.”

Dean stands up, which makes Sam stand up and take a step back. Dean starts closing the distance between them and this might end in fisticuffs after all.

“What? No, that’s… how? How would I know?”

“I don’t know how but you did, didn’t you?”

Sam’s back hits the dresser. “No, I…” Sam caves. He doesn’t want to lie to Dean. “All right yes, fine I knew. But I just found out yesterday.”

“How?” Dean demands. “How did you know?”

“I got his blood work back and it was just… wrong. And there’ve been these thefts at the hospital. From the blood bank.”

“Jesus,” Dean says, his body slumping. “I didn’t… I mean, I hadn’t even thought… but he really does drink blood?”

“Yes. But he hasn’t killed anyone.”

“Oh, I suppose he told you that,” Dean shoots hotly.

“Yes he did. And I believe him.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy, you should have told me.”

“I just found out! And I thought you should hear it from him! Besides, what was I gonna say? ‘Hey Dean, you know your boyfriend Castiel Collins? Yeah, sorry about that, he’s a bloodsucking fiend.’”

“So, you what? Talked to him about this?”

“Yes,” Sam nods. “He’s looking for a cure, Dean. And I’ve agreed to help him.”

Dean’s eyes are murderous. “The hell you will.”

“Dean, I’m not ten anymore. You don’t get to tell me what I can or cannot do.”

“You just watch me.”

Sam sighed, dropping his tone. He knows Dean better than he knows himself sometimes and he knows Dean is just spoiling for a fight. “I’m not gonna fight with you about this. You’re just using this to avoid how you feel.”

“Oh, did I miss the part where you got a fucking psychology degree as well?”

Sam crosses his arms over his chest. “You can’t bait me, Dean, not this time.”

Dean seems to deflate a little and turns away from Sam.

“So, what else did Castiel tell you?”

Dean shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I left after that.”

“What? What do you mean you left?”

Dean turns back to Sam. “I mean I fucking left. I didn’t hang around to hear some creepy, freaktastic sob story.”

“But… don’t you have questions? How he became a vampire, how it works?”

“Don’t care,” mumbled Dean. “Didn’t he tell you?”

“No!” Sam exclaims. “I didn’t want to ask too much and I figured he’d tell you and then you’d tell me.”

“Well, I’m sorry I ruined your Scooby-Doo vampire mystery, but this is my _life_.”

“I know it’s your life, Dean. But you were happy.”

“I was happy before him,” Dean snaps.

“No. No, you weren’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were _content_ but you weren’t happy.”

“Same difference.”

“No, it’s not. And you know it’s not. Dean, I just want you to be happy.”

“With a vampire?” Dean asks and then he laughs. “Jesus, it’s ridiculous, I can’t even believe I’m saying it out loud.”

“I know it’s not… traditional.” Sam shifts on his feet.

“Traditional? Traditional? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“For what it’s worth, I think Castiel is a good guy.”

“He’s not human!”

Sam winces. This is going so badly. “He’s… well, I’m not sure exactly what he is and that’s what I’m going to be working on first, but I think he really cares for you.”

The whole conversation is getting uncomfortable. Feelings, relationships, and now the completely unheard of addition of the supernatural and Dean’s done.

Dean makes a chopping motion with his hands. “I’m done talking about this.”

“You can’t just end the conversation.”

“Out,” Dean states, pointing at the door.

“Dean-”

Dean stood at his door gesturing for Sam to leave. Sam sighs in resignation and takes a step toward the door.

“Just, think about it. Go talk to him.”

“Beat it,” Dean replies with a jerk of his thumb the way of the door.

“I don’t want you to make a mistake that you’re gonna regret.”

“Sam-” Dean’s voice has a warning tone in it that Sam’s learned over the years. Sam holds up his hands in a defensive gesture.

“I got it, we’re done for tonight, but just… think about it.”

Sam turns and leaves before Dean can get another word in edgewise.

The door shuts solidly behind it and Sam’s pretty sure the accompanying thump he hears is Dean’s head falling against the wood.


	17. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 17 - The Prophet Chuck

Chuck’s not sure how it happened since neither Dean nor Castiel are the type to go around telling people, but less than forty-eight hours after Dean and Castiel’s relationship ends, all of Collinsport seems to know about it.

It might have something to do with Dean’s behavior at the pub. He doesn’t talk to anyone if he can avoid it and if he can’t, he’s abrupt and curt. He drops a flat of beer mugs right out of the dishwasher and the ensuing stream of profanity from his mouth can be heard from every corner of the pub. For the first time ever, he blanks on his weekly order meeting with Steve from food services. Luckily, Steve's been doing the order for the pub for three years, so when Dean doesn’t show, he just submits what he thinks is an average order and doesn’t think much of it.

Dean forgets to submit payroll to the accountant, but Ava sees it sitting on his desk in his small office in the basement and slips it into her purse and drops it off on her way home. Ash happens to see the monthly liquor order before it gets faxed off and thankfully saves the pub from ordering over five thousand dollars of liquor they don’t need. Ash adjusts the order and sends it off with a short note to Jilly at OK Liquor to please call Ash if anything seems out of sorts on subsequent orders.

After Dean deposited the money for the VLT float by accident, Andy volunteered to do close with Dean, saying that he sure could use the extra cash, and they could finish twice as fast. He’s been double counting the money and Dean’s just all over the place, getting it wrong more than he gets it right.

None of them say anything directly to Dean, but they all give Sam meaningful looks when he stops by the pub one day to ask how things are going.

Sam’s had no further luck getting Dean to talk to him. Dean gets up, goes to the pub, works most of the day, all of the night, closes up and does the same thing all over again the next day. With Sam’s shift work at the hospital and odd hours, he’s just as likely to run into Dean as not, but they don’t talk. Dean grunts in response to pretty much any question Sam asks but doesn’t engage in any conversation. He doesn’t really eat any of the groceries Sam picks up, doesn’t watch any movies, doesn’t work on the Impala. He works, he sleeps.

It’s like living with a ghost.

At least, that’s what Sam tells Chuck when he sees him at Collinwood.

“He doesn’t talk to me, he doesn’t do anything, he just works.”

Chuck nods in understanding. “It’s the same here, I mean, you see it when you come by. You’re the only person Castiel talks to, other than me.”

Sam places a set of blood samples in the centrifuge. Chuck had instructed Castiel to set up a lab for Sam in the basement of Collinwood. When Chuck had approached Sam about it, Sam put together a wish list of things he really didn’t think he could get and was astounded when he showed up days later and found Chuck directing the delivery company to take all the equipment to the basement. In his time off from the hospital, Sam was ensconced in a lab that far outstripped his official one.

Chuck also offered his assistance; taking notes, procuring supplies, keeping an eye on experiments. He was actually a fantastic lab assistant, precise and meticulous with his work.

“What does he talk about?” Sam asks, leaning against the stainless steel counter as the centrifuge whirred away.

Chuck bit his lip. “Well, talk is a generous term, I guess,” he answered, thinking about his previous reply. “Mostly, I give him updates on how my other work is progressing, my research, and then he nods. Sometimes he asks a few questions. Sometimes he has some suggestions. But that’s about it.”

“Yeah. Dean’s the same at the pub.”

“I mean, I know it’s crazy. Vampires, right?” Chuck asks, his large blue eyes bright and expressive. “And I know he fed on me when he first… well, when he first woke up. And I was fucked up about that for a while.”

Sam nods knowingly. He had a very frank interview with Chuck after Castiel had described what happened to people he fed from. Castiel had detailed the enthrallment and the control he could place a person under and had suggested that Sam speak to Chuck about it. Chuck had been honest and forthright, explaining that until Castiel stopped feeding from him for a while, he still had the strange compulsion to be where Castiel was, do whatever he was asked. But now that Castiel was sustained on supplies from the blood bank, and had been for some time, Chuck no longer felt the eerie and inexplicable pull. Now he simply liked spending time with Castiel because they were friends.

After a fashion.

“But he’s a good guy,” Chuck continues. “He fed on me because he had to and now that he doesn’t need to…he doesn’t. And he’s never used his weird vampire mojo on me, I mean, not since he stopped feeding, you know? And he could, he totally could but he doesn’t. And I…I think he really loves Dean.”

The last part is said in a rush, Chuck looking up from under his eyelashes. It isn’t exactly the most natural conversation in the world to have, discussing Sam’s brother and his brother’s boyfriend, but they always gravitate toward talking about Castiel, Dean or Castiel and Dean.

“Yeah,” says Sam quietly. “I think you’re right. And Dean… well, he was really happy. And now… he’s just not.”

“Yeah,” Chuck echoes. The two of them stare at the centrifuge morosely. “I think that if Dean knew why Castiel became a vampire… If he knew what forced him to make that sacrifice… I think it would be different.”

“Wait, you know?”

Chuck shrugs. “Well, yeah. Didn’t Castiel tell you?”

“He told me _how_ he became a vampire, but not why.”

“Oh,” breathes Chuck. “Well, he did it for Dean.”

Sam frowns and shakes his head. “That makes no sense. It happened hundreds of years ago.”

Chuck takes a deep breath. “We should sit down and get some coffee.” He frowns. “Or whiskey.” He claps Sam on the back. “Come on. I’ll tell you the epic history of Castiel and Dean.”

***

They decide to switch tactics - Sam’s going to speak with Castiel and Chuck with Dean.

Chuck’s not sure who got the better end of that deal.

True, Castiel is a vampire.

But Dean Winchester could beat the shit out of you using only his pinky fingers.

All in all, Chuck thinks he would have rather had another go at Castiel. They have a rapport, or at least, they have something.

Dean’s a nice guy, for sure, and everyone in town loves him, but right now… Chuck would rather be facing a firing squad.

Chuck’s been typing away for hours and he’s got the product of his effort tucked underneath his arm, neatly bound. His still got his glasses on and he pushes them up on his nose as he approaches the bar at the pub and clears his throat.

“Chuck,” says Dean without preamble. “What’ll you have?”

“Uh, how are you Dean?” Chuck hedges, taking a seat carefully at the bar.

“Not in the mood for chit-chat. Beer? Or you going straight for the whiskey?”

“Uh, beer, please. I’ve been… cutting back.”

“Good for you. Bad for business, but good for you.” It’s probably the most Dean’s said all night. He barely looks back at Chuck as he fills the draught mug and then slides it over.

Chuck slides his thin manuscript on the table. “Um, so things?” Chuck’s voice breaks a bit and he clears his throat again. “How are things with you?”

Dean turns his cold stare on Chuck. “Didn’t figure you for one of the gossips, Chuck.”

“No, um, I’m not. I’m just, uh… so, the thing is, remember a while back when you said I didn’t look so good?”

Dean eyeballs him. “Yeah, I remember. You wanna see Sam?”

“Uh, no, I’ve seen Sam. I mean, I haven’t seen him like a patient or anything but I’ve seen him around because he’s at Collinwood and… well so am I.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean’s voice is flat and toneless.

“So, the thing is, part of the reason I didn’t look so good is… well, I don’t sleep well ‘cause I have these dreams. These really weird dreams.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean repeats his eyes going skeptical. “Look, Chuck, you’d be surprised the things I hear working at the pub, or maybe you wouldn’t, I don’t know, but I gotta level with you. You seem like a nice guy and if you need my help, then spit it out because this? Not my best fucking week.”

“Um, I don’t need help, uh, in fact, I think that I can help you.” Chuck pushes the pages of his manuscript forward, toward Dean.

“What’s this?” Dean asks, staring at the paper.

“Um, you know I’m a writer, but what you don’t know is that I write what I dream. And it turns out that what I dream… I guess in the old days they would have burned me at the stake for what I see, and in the really old days they would have called me a prophet. Because I see things. I dream things. Things that have happened. Things that will happen.”

There’s a pause where all Dean does is stare at him. “Right,” Dean drawls. “Did Sam put you up to this? Is this some kind of weird mind fuck that he thinks will cheer me up?”

“And I’ve dreamed about you,” Chuck continues, undeterred. He has to get this out, and get it out quickly. “I knew about you and Castiel before he woke up, before I woke him up.”

“What?” Dean asks quietly, deadly.

“I’m the one that woke Castiel up, from the mausoleum. I broke into his tomb and cracked it open, waking him up.”

Dean’s eyes immediately dart around ensuring no one is close enough to hear them.

“I know what he is. I was the first one to see him in Collinsport. I was the one who… er, well, sustained him.”

“Are you… are you saying… he drinks from you?” The last part barely comes out in a whisper.

“Um, yes? I mean he used to but not anymore. But that’s not what I came here to talk to you about.” Chuck takes a deep breath and downs half his pint in several large gulps. “Okay, here goes,” he breathes. “I knew that Castiel would… want you as soon as he saw you. I knew that you two would end up…” Chuck grimaces. “Okay, the thing is I can’t _not_ write it down, even the naughty bits, I have to write it down or my head will explode, like chunky soup everywhere, but I didn’t enjoy writing it down. Okay, maybe just a little but c’mon that’s normal right? I mean who hasn’t… you know college… but that’s totally beside the point,” he finishes, taking another large swallow of ale. “And I thought about telling you but I never thought… I mean how could it be real? But then it was real and how could you believe me? It was true, but it was insane and you were so _nice_ to me, just really fucking nice and I really wanted… but by then I was under the mojo and I couldn’t… but then later I wasn’t under the mojo and I could have but I didn’t because how… and now you know. Now you know everything.”

Chuck drains the last of his pint, slapping the glass down with a thunk on the bar.

Dean’s just staring at him. Not blinking, barely breathing. Like a hawk watching its prey. Chuck squirms on his stool.

“Um, I know that was… well, clear as mud, but I assure you, I’m a _much_ better writer than orator.”

“You knew?” Dean finally spits. “Jesus Christ, did everyone in fucking Collinsport know but me?”

“What? No, of course not. It was just me. Well, and then Sam found out and then you. And that’s it. I mean, Pamela’s psychic so I think she knows that something’s wonky, but I don't think she knows the whole bloodsucking truth. I think. I haven’t dreamt that she knows, so I’m thinking she doesn’t.” Chuck takes a big breath. “But that’s not the reason I’m here.”

“Really,” Dean spits, not really looking at Chuck. He pinches the bridge of his nose and the expression on his face is dark and murderous. It occurs to Chuck that that Dean’s life is pretty fucking ridiculous right now and he probably wonders if he’s gone bat-shit crazy. “Chuck,” Dean says quietly, “if I understand you correctly, then you knew all this was going to happen to me before it happened. Is that about right?”

“Yes?” Chuck squeaks.

“Okay. I’m about twenty seconds from ripping your arm out of its socket and beating you with the bloody end.”

Dean voice remains eerily steady and calm. Chuck gulps. He so rathers he’d been left to deal with Castiel.

“You need to read that,” Chuck blurts, standing up from the stool and pointing at the manuscript.

“Why?”

“Because it… It’s why… It’s how… You have to know what happened. You have to know why he did it. He did it for you. It’s always been for you.”

“That’s total bullshit. We just met.”

“Yeah, this time around.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were there, in the past. His past, your past. It was you and him and you… he was trying to save you and it didn’t… and you know it’s true. I _know_ you know. You don’t want to know but you do. You knew as soon as you saw him. You’ve been having strange dreams and sometimes, you think you almost remember something. That if you could just _stop_ , you’d remember. You’ve been waiting for him as much as he’s waited for you.”

“I don’t care,” Dean lies through clenched teeth, pretending Chuck’s words have no effect on him.

“You have to,” Chuck argues, a surge of fealty driving him onward. “Read it,” he says pointing at the manuscript. “It’s all there. You, him, Ruby -”

“Ruby! What do you know about Ruby?” Dean shouts, stunned to hear the name mentioned. Half the pub turns to look at them but Dean’s glare has necks hastily rotating back the other way.

“You see? You do know.”

Dean shakes his head. “I know I was lied to. That’s what I know.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“No, it’s exactly that simple, Chuck.” Dean takes a moment to get his temper under control. “You seem like a nice guy and maybe you got dragged into this. And now, maybe you can’t get out. But I can. You can come to the pub, you can talk to me, but not about this. Not ever. I’m done.”

“You need to read those pages and find out what you’re turning your back on before your decide.” Chuck’s voice is slightly wobbly, but he doesn’t back down. “You should know exactly what you’re throwing away. And then if you can still live with that decision, I won’t say another word.” Chuck raises his chin defiantly and tries not to flinch under Dean’s gaze.

“I don’t need to read anything.”

“You’re afraid to read it.” Chuck does flinch under Dean’s eyes this time, but he remains resolute. He can tell by Dean’s reaction that he’s hit the mark. “I told you. I see things. I know.”

“Right. You’re the prophet Chuck,” Dean says sarcastically.

“I am the prophet Chuck,” Chuck answers, strangely calmed by the words. “And I know things.”

“If that’s so, then how come you don’t know how this will all turn out, huh? How come you don’t know if I already will or won’t read your stupid pages?”

Chuck shifts. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Of course not,” Dean says with a cold smile.

Their eyes are locked, neither one of them saying a word. Stalemate. Chuck finally nods once. He pulls a ten dollar bill out of his pocket and sets it on the bar. “For the drink. Goodnight.”

“Take your pages with you,” Dean calls after him.

“They’re yours now,” Chuck says over his shoulder. “You’ll have to be the one to destroy them if you won’t read them.”


	18. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 18 - Dr. Sam Winchester - Relationship Councilor and ...

“Did you want to ask me about him?”

Castiel freezes at Sam’s question, the preternatural stillness that he can achieve when he wishes.

Sam has been spending a lot of time at Collinwood lately, nearly every spare moment when he’s not at the hospital, running tests, taking readings, asking questions. And although he’s spent a fair amount of time with Castiel, he still hasn’t gotten used to how _still_ he can be. It’s clear to Sam that Castiel generally works very hard to hide his _otherness_ and that the effort is constant and unending. It’s only now, that Sam knows what Castiel is, that Castiel has stopped trying to pass for human.

So, Sam knows instantly, by the way Castiel’s entire body goes inhumanly still that Castiel knows that Sam is asking if Castiel wants to know about Dean.

“How is he?” Castiel finally says, voice quiet and even.

“Really shitty,” Sam replies easily as he draws another vial of blood. Sam’s currently trying to discern what effect feeding has on Castiel’s numbers. Which numbers go up, which go down. What effect does quantity have?

He hasn’t gotten around to completely mapping out his studies yet, but he’s creepily aware that at some point, he’s going to have to test freshness of the blood. From a purely scientific point of view, he’s excited.

The non-scientist part of him feels really weird about it.

He focuses back on what he’s doing.

“Is he unwell?” Castiel hedges.

“Depends on what you mean by that.” Sam swaps one blood vial out for another. “He doesn’t really talk to me that much. He works. He sleeps. Or rather, he lies down horizontal in a bed. I don’t think he’s sleeping much if his face is anything to go by.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything in reply.

“And it doesn’t look like you’re sleeping much either,” Sam offers.

“I do not require much sleep.”

“Kinda not the point I was trying to make. Do you ever think about going over to the pub? Talking to him?”

“He said he did not wish to see me. I am not to come by. I am not to speak to him.”

Castiel’s voice is flat and monotone. Empty.

“Yeah, that sounds like something Dean would say. But, the thing is, he’s miserable.”

Sam isn’t sure why he thought that would maybe cheer Castiel up, but instead, Castiel slumps at the words.

“I know. I thought… that perhaps once he knew… I imagined I would have a moment to explain. To… atone.”

Sam ineffectually pats Castiel on the shoulder, gripping the solid joint. Castiel turns his head and stares uncomprehendingly at Sam’s hand.

Sam pulls it back.

This is awkward. How does one comfort a vampire?

“Maybe you need to make a gesture?”

“I cannot force anything on him. I will not.”

“And I’m absolutely not suggesting you do. There will be no forcing. I’m just… I mean…’cause if you’re waiting for Dean to smarten up?” Sam sighs. “It’s a good thing you’re probably immortal.”

Castiel smiles at the dark humor and Sam’s relieved that it didn’t all just go completely pear-shaped.

“Are you saying my longevity will be of use in trying to outlast your brother’s stubborn streak?”

“He still might outlast you. Depends on if he can stay mad after he dies.”

At the mention of death, Castiel’s eyebrows frown slightly and he loses his smile, turning slightly away from Sam again.

“Oh, I’m, uh, sorry,” Sam says quickly. “It can’t be easy for you to… well, Chuck… told me about how you became a vampire. About Dean. In the past.”

Castiel nods once. “It is not easy watching someone you love die. I have known the death of everyone I knew. My family. My friends. My… Dean.”

“At first, I didn’t believe Chuck when he said that Dean was the same as he was in the past. I thought it was crazy,” Sam confesses, slotting the blood vials into their carrying tray. “And then I realized, hey, I’ve already committed to finding a cure for vampirism, so how much further of a stretch can reincarnation be?” Sam’s lips curl in a wry smile. “But I’ve seen Dean since he met you and he’s never… he’s never been that way about anyone. And I don’t know if it’s because some part of him does remember or if it all really is just bullshit. But I know he was happy. That’s what I want for him.”

“Myself as well. And he’s made it clear I am to stay away. So I must. So I shall.”

Sam nods. It doesn’t seem like there’s much more to say on the subject of Dean. Sam hopes Chuck fares better.

He notes the time the blood was drawn on his chart, adding a few other numbers to input into his tracking system later. He clears his throat. “Uh, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Of course,” Castiel nods to the chair opposite him and Sam sits. It’s quiet in the lab as Sam considers what he’s about to ask Castiel to do.

“We know that feeding has a direct impact on your numbers and you’ve been more than gracious in varying your patterns and habits for my knowledge and experiments. But I’d like to go further. Quite a bit further.”

Sam tries not to be afraid when Castiel’s eyes sharpen and focus on in him with precision. “I assume you are not considering anything either of us would find… distasteful, in one way or another?”

“No, I’m not suggesting anything… graphic for lack of a better word,” Sam is quick to add. “Let me start again. If I understand correctly, Chuck awoke you? You were hibernating, so to speak?”

“Yes.”

“So you didn’t feed while you were in… there.”

“No, it was quite impossible. I was entombed.”

“How is that possible?” Sam asks, leaning forward, brow furrowed. “How is it that you need to feed, but you were able to hibernate?”

“After a period of withdrawal, my functions cannot sustain themselves fully. I am able to shut them down. It’s not entirely voluntary, although I do have some control over it.”

Sam nods thoughtfully. “And there is no way to not feed and escape hibernation?”

“Not that I know of, although it’s not as though I was given a lesson when I was turned,” Castiel replies, his eyes flashing with grim humor. “I only know that I was determined to sleep. There was too much…” Castiel pauses and looks away for a moment. “This was sometime after…” his voice trails away and Sam’s pretty sure that sentence ends with _after Dean died_. “I had learned that I could stave the hunger for a time but that I was unstable, a danger to others when I did. So the only way to ensure that I would not feed was to be entombed.”

“Who did you trust with that?”

“My sister. Abigail. It is the worst burden I could have placed on her but she accepted it with grace and honor. She knew what I was. What I had become. But she still loved me.

“I hoped that I would remain undiscovered for some time. Until Charles came along, I was asleep. Or resting, I suppose.”

“What was it like? The withdrawal, the hibernation?”

Castiel thinks, his gaze sombre and faraway. “I cannot say. I recall being entombed. There was grief. Fear. Horror. Then hunger. It was relentless. It was painful, although I could not pinpoint exactly where. It was as though each one of my cells were screaming at me and the volume was such that I was being overloaded. I couldn’t discern one part of my body from another. I… dreamed. Or hallucinated. I’m not sure which. I couldn’t tell the difference. It might have been days or years.” He taps his fingers on the table, as though trying to pinpoint the memory, as though he’s reciting a poem and not the sensation of being buried somewhat alive and suffering. He makes a soft ‘hmm’ sound before turning his blue eyes back to Sam.

“Is that what you’re asking, Sam? Do you wish to study the withdrawal?”

Sam purses his lips together and nods. “Yeah. I think we need to. By seeing how you respond without drinking, I’m hoping to figure out why you need to drink.”

It’s Castiel’s turn to nod. “And when would you like to begin?”

“As soon as you think you’re willing.”

“I am willing, but arrangements should be made.”

“Like?”

“Confinement. Security. For yourself and Charles. No one should be allowed to come to Collinwood and I must not be allowed to leave.”

“Do you think that’s necessary?”

“I cannot honestly remember all the details from before, Sam. And I’ve told you, I have killed before. I certainly am capable of it. This affliction is a monster sleeping beneath my skin. When I deny it blood…” Castiel’s fingers curled on his thighs, pulling his hands into tight fists. “It pulses. I cannot be allowed the modicum of freedom that I have now.”

Sam wonders if he should take it back, if they should just scrap the whole idea. But he promised to try and find a cure and this is a step toward that.

“All right. Tell me what you need and Chuck and I will arrange it.”

***

That damn manuscript is haunting him.

Dean threw it in the trash the second after Chuck left.

Then he proceeded to stare at it in the trash for five minutes before cursing and pulling it back out.

He tucked it under his arm, but by the time he was back downstairs in the basement, he had resolved to throw it out again.

Ten minutes after that, he was cursing again as he stood in the back parking lot of the pub and stared at the door, trying to convince himself he didn’t want to go downstairs and get it.

It was finally Ash’s turn to close and Dean had been telling himself that he was looking forward to an evening of beer, action films and food he didn’t cook. He’d spent the whole day convincing himself of this.

He kicks the dumpster hard and curses a blue streak as pain shoots up his toes and foot. He wrenches the back door to the pub open and ignores Ash’s laconic “Dean-o, thought you left man,” and stomps down the stairs, snatching the stupid manuscript up.

He storms back up the stairs and ignores Ash again.

“Have a good night, dude,” Ash calls after him.

He will, Dean thinks viciously. He’s going to have a _great_ night. Best night in days.

His mood is still sour by the time he steps into the house and spots Sam getting ready to leave, duffle bag slung over one shoulder.

“Hey,” Sam says, forcing a casual tone. “You’re not closing tonight?”

“Ash,” Dean replies, eyeing the bag. “Going somewhere?”

“Yeah, I was going to call you,” says Sam. “I’m taking some time off from the hospital and I’ll… well I’ll be at Collinwood.”

Dean tells himself it isn’t jealousy he feels. It isn’t jealousy or worry, neither envy nor interest.

“Oh,” he manages.

“Yeah. I’m running some tests. On Castiel. And it’s just better if I’m there monitoring him.”

“I didn’t ask why,” Dean says coldly.

“No,” Sam agrees. “But you wanted to.”

“Sam,” Dean warns.

Sam holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I just wanted to let you know where I was and that you don’t have to worry about me.”

“You’re hanging out with a fucking vampire, of course I’m gonna worry.”

“The same vampire you were living with and nothing happened to you,” Sam counters.

Dean clenches his jaw but before he can grind out a reply, Sam points to the manuscript tucked under Dean’s arm.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Garbage.”

Taking in Dean’s tone and his defensive stance, Sam understands. “It’s from Chuck. Isn’t it?”

“Did I miss the fucking memo where everyone got the right to butt into my personal life?”

“Have you read it?”

Dean swallows. “No.”

“You should.”

“Well, you don’t get a vote.”

It’s the most they’ve spoken to each other in days. It’s tense and awkward and Sam strangely doesn’t want it to end.

“He misses you.”

“Jesus, what are you? Yenta for the undead?”

“He’s not undead,” Sam clarifies. “There is a medical basis for his condition. I just haven’t found it yet.”

“It’s not a condition, Sammy. He’s a vampire.”

Sam straightens. “I’m confident I can find a treatment.”

“Pretty sure they’ve already come up with one. Stake through the heart.”

Even as he says it, Dean feels sick and wants to pull the words out of the air and stuff them back in his mouth.

“You don’t mean that,” Sam says. He hitches his bag onto his shoulder. “Come to Collinwood, Dean. Just talk with him.”

“You shouldn’t even be going over there. It’s dangerous.”

“No, it isn’t. And you know it isn’t. He won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do. He’s not a killer by nature, but even if he was, he would never hurt me because I’m important to you. He wouldn’t do that to you.”

Dean averts his eyes from Sam’s gaze. “If you get in trouble, you call me. You’re not my favorite person right now, but I’ll come.”

“I know. But I won’t get into any trouble.”

Dean doesn’t move from the foyer as Sam leaves. He stays standing there, listening to Sam’s beater car chug to life and then rumble down the driveway. He tells himself his desire to get in the Impala and follow Sam to Collinwood is only so he can drag Sam back home. It has nothing at all to do with Castiel.

Because he doesn’t miss him.

At all.

And if he can’t sleep much lately, or if he’s walking around feeling like some scooped out all his insides with a really dull melon-baller, well, it’s probably because running your own business takes a lot out of a person.

And when he does sleep, if he has that crazy dream where he’s chasing after something ( _someone_ ) and he catches it ( _him_ ) and then it ( _he_ ) slips out of Dean’s grasp and he wakes in a cold sweat panting for air, well… it’s nobody’s business but his own.

No matter how hard he tries to convince himself he’s fine and he doesn’t care, he’s not and he does. Despite the fact that he’s been telling himself all day that he couldn’t wait to get home and sack out in front of the television and watch a _Dirty Harry_ marathon, he knows the truth is that he’s been dreading his night off for days. Dreading coming home and sitting in the dark, trying to fill the time and _not think_ about Cas.

He’s pretty fucking terrible at not thinking about Cas.

He loses whole sections of hours standing around not thinking about Cas.

He wants to hit something, he wants to break something. He wants to lie down in bed and not lie awake for hours.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night or day, depending on when he finally falls asleep, he wonders if he’s crazy. Because sometimes he thinks he made a mistake. A really fucking big mistake and he’ll start dialing the numbers to Cas’ phone or he’ll think about getting in the car and driving over to Collinwood.

Then he thinks _vampire_. Which is usually immediately followed by _lied to_ and the whole cycle starts over again.

But in those moments, before he stops himself, he remembers how happy he was. How happy they both were. And nothing about it felt fake or wrong. He remembers how comfortable and uncomplicated he felt around Cas. It was all so simple; He couldn’t fucking believe how simple.

He realizes that when he was with Cas, he honestly never saw it coming to an end. It’s not something he ever had before. He’d always inherently known the shelf life of any other relationship he entered into, and they were short. Always short. But he never thought about the end with Cas.

Then the end came and it was like someone just yanked the world out from under him and then for just added kicks and giggles, wrapped every raw nerve he had in salty sandpaper. Everything hurts. Everything feels _wrong_ , like he’s going down a busy street and everyone else is going against him, jostling him, bumping him.

Everything is hard.

He finds himself in his room and just falls face down onto his bed. If Sam were acting like this, Dean would accuse him of being a fourteen year old girl. He’d tease him mercilessly, then take him out and get him rip-roaring drunk on tequila. By the end of the night, Dean would make sure Sam didn’t even know the name of the girl he’d lost. Then, over the course of the next few days, Dean would pick Sam up, dust him off and send him back out into the world, ready to face it again.

But Sam’s not here to do the same for Dean and Dean doubts a bottle of tequila is gonna do the trick. He doubts there’s enough tequila in the world to do the trick.

***

Sam knew of course that money always made things happen faster. He just didn’t realize how much faster.

After his discussion with Castiel, Sam, Chuck and Castiel had sat down and discussed the security measures that should be taken in order to ensure everyone’s safety.

Castiel was the one who brought up his sarcophagus. Sam’s not sure he could have and from the look on Chuck’s face, he probably couldn’t have either. Castiel talked calmly about its silver lining, how he can’t press his hands up against it to open the lid without severe pain and crippling burns. He mentioned that the lid is quite heavy and would take a lot of his strength to move, due to the religious inscriptions on it. He was relatively certain they could carve a section of the side out for his arm to pass through and Sam could still monitor his blood work, take pressure readings and even ask Castiel some questions if he wished.

Sam and Chuck tried not to squirm too much as they planned Castiel’s entombment. If Castiel noticed that they fidgeted, he didn’t say anything.

Chuck scurried off to make the arrangements and Sam decided he didn’t want to know how the author was going to have the sarcophagus moved from the cemetery to Collinwood. Chuck seemed to know an odd assortment of people and Sam was constantly amazed at the things he could find out or procure.

By the time Sam returned from his place and his run in with Dean, a motley crew of very silent, very sombre men were in the middle of delivering the stone tomb and silver coffin to the cellar of Collinwood. They spoke only to Chuck and only to ask where to place the items and then to settle the bill.

Chuck had bustled around making sure everything was intact and undamaged, checking the linens on the inside of the coffin for tears or rips in a strangely morbid fastidiousness. When finally satisfied, he had left again, this time to somehow obtain tasers.

Sam wouldn’t even know where to start but apparently Chuck Shurley, author extraordinaire, had no problems.

Now, seated in the kitchen, drinking a cup of the very fine coffee that Chuck keeps stocked, Sam studies Castiel. He is quiet as usual, eyes drifting over to the window and out to the back courtyard, darkened by nightfall. Sam wonders what Castiel thinks about. He’s silent for long stretches and appears to have no desire to fill the silence with idle chatter. They do have conversations and if Sam has a question, Castiel answers it, but there are still interminable stretches where Castiel says nothing.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” Sam asks.

“Yes,” answers Castiel simply without hesitation.

“It’s just that, it sounds like it will be pretty unpleasant for you.”

“It will be,” he acknowledges.

“Are you… nervous?” Sam spins his cup around on the wood table, the china making a hollow sound.

“I am not looking forward to it, but I see the necessity of it.”

“Is there anything you want before we go ahead with this? I thought we could start tomorrow at daybreak, so if you did want something…” _or someone_ remains unspoken.

Castiel is quiet for a moment and then speaks. “There is nothing I want that I am able to have. And I suspect you know as much.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. “I could try to talk to him again? I mean, I did talk to him the other day but I could try again. As I said before, he’s pretty fucking miserable.”

“I appreciate the offer, Sam, but I believe it would be futile. Thank you.”

Sam manages a weak smile.

“Are there any tests you would like to do before I’m secured?”

Secured is a much better word than _entombed_ , thinks Sam. Or _inter, inhume_.

“Well,” answers Sam, trying to go into doctor-mode, “I wanted you to… drink before we… before you’re secured. I’ll take a baseline blood sample then, as well as your pressure. I had thought about taking your temperature, but we’d have to drill another hole in the cof… in the … in the box for me to be able to get to your ear or your forehead. Or I could reach in and….”

“It would be best if you did not reach your limbs inside once I am consumed by the hunger,” said Castiel evenly.

“Oh. Right. So I guess that’s out. Other than that, I’m hoping to get some feedback from you on how you’re doing.”

“I will do my best to answer any questions honestly.”

Sam nods completely at a loss for a reply that wouldn’t be inappropriate. Something inane like _Oh, hey, yeah, as honest as you can be while I starve you into hallucinations and madness, thanks!_

Medical school never prepared him for the bedside manner required when tending vampires.

“If there is nothing further, I have some… errands I would like to attend to before dawn.” Castiel rises as he speaks, fluid grace transitioning him from seated to standing.

“Of course,” replies Sam. “I’ll see you at sunrise.”

“Until sunrise.”


	19. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 19 - A Chuck Shurley Novella

Ben’s come down with the chicken pox and Dean itches just looking at him.

“Dude, I know,” says Ben grimly at Dean’s expression.

“You look like you got stung by a thousand bees and dunked in Pepto-bismal.”

“It’s calamity lotion.”

“Calamine.”

“Yeah, and it’s s’posed to help with the itching but that’s bull shit.”

Dean raises his eyebrows at Ben’s language.

“Well it is.”

“Ben Collins don’t you dare start scratching,” Pamela says from the doorway. “Dean can only stay for ten minutes.”

“Aw, c’mon, I don’t even feel sick!”

“But you _are_ sick,” Pamela counters and then turns her sharp eyes on Dean. “Ten minutes, Dean.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean nods. He waits for Pam to leave, craning his neck out a little to ensure she’s gone and then slides the new Nintendo DS game out from his pocket and flips to Ben on the bed.

“Is that the new Pokemon?” Ben’s eyes light up.

“Sure is.” He points a finger at Ben. “Don’t get me in trouble by playing it too much. When Pam says to rest, it’s time to rest. Or I’ll take it back.”

Ben nods like he’ll never betray Dean’s trust and won’t stay up an hour past his bedtime playing video games.

For the first time in days, Dean smiles and it feels real.

“So, chicken pox, huh?”

Ben makes a face. “Yeah, I probably got it from Jolene who got it from her little brother who got it at daycare. Pam’s pissed because I guess Jolene’s mum knew she was sick but sent her to school anyway and now there’s like, a million of us sick.”

“Well, couple days at home, daytime cartoons, video games,” Dean shrugs. “Can’t be so bad.”

“Dude, it itches. Everywhere.”

Dean nods.

“No, Dean, _everywhere_.” He turns his large eyes up toward Dean meaningfully.

“Well,” Dean drawls, trying to hide his grin. “I’m sure you’ll live.”

Ben gives a dramatic sigh. “I can’t even go outside to the forest. I’m not really sick-sick, I just itch. And I’m kinda tired, but that’s it. And I barfed once. And Pam keeps putting the pink stuff on me. And she won’t let me outside.”

“You’ll be better soon.”

Another disgusted sigh. “But that’ll take forever. Like maybe even _days_. And Sarah and I were just getting to the good part in _Swiss Family Robinson_.”

Dean stills slightly at the mention of Sarah, remembering Ben’s ghastly tale told to him by the young spirit about a witch named Ruby. “So, uh, you still hang out with her?”

“Yeah,” Ben shrugs, ripping into the packaging of his new game. “She’s pretty cool.”

“She, uh, ever tell you any more stories?” He tries to keep his tone casual.

“She tells me stuff all the time.”

“No, I, um, mean like the ones about… Ruby.” It’s strange but he can’t even say her name without getting a slight chill and feeling the muscles of his neck tense up.

“Oh, no, just that one.”

“What other kinds of stories does she tell you?”

Again Ben shrugs. “I dunno. Just stuff about horses and Mr. Collins.”

Dean’s heart stills. “You mean Cas? Er, Castiel? That Mr. Collins?”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Duh. He’s her brother.” Ben finally frees the tiny game booklet from its packaging and starts to devour it.

“What?” Dean stutters.

“What what?” Ben asks looking up from his book to Dean.

“Is Sarah Castiel’s sister?”

“That’s what I said,” Ben replies as though it were obvious.

“What kind of stories does she tell about him?”

“I dunno. He would take her horse riding. Or shopping in town sometimes. She’s got a sister too, Abigail, but I don’t know much about her ‘cept she looks a lot like Anna. And just that she missed him and wished she could go see him. That’s why I had to pass that message along that day. You remember? When you were at Mr. Collins kitchen real early and then we had pie.”

Dean has tried very hard not to remember anything about Castiel, and certainly not that warm, easy morning after his first night at Collinwood. “Right,” he finally manages. “I remember.”

“So, yeah. She’s tried to see him a bunch of times, but it doesn’t work. So I gave that message to Mr. Collins. Did it exactly right too.”

“Uh, do you remember what it was?” Dean asks.

Ben wrinkles his brow. “Dude, that was like, forever ago.”

Dean’s back to his fake smile. “Right, of course.” But Dean does remember snatches of what Ben said. He remembers thinking it was so bizarre, so out of place, he’d been so worried about the boy.

 _… No one can claim to have made a deal with the devil … Do not fear the past. Those who own it do not repeat it._

“Are you getting sick too?”

Dean jerks slightly at Ben’s voice pulling him out of his reverie. “What?”

“You look like you’re gonna ralph. Don’t do it on the bed. Pam’ll kill you. She just changed these sheets.”

“No, I’m not gonna be sick, I just, uh, got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

Ben gives him that look children give adults when they think they’re full of shit.

Pam’s strong voice carries up the stairs. “That’s ten, Winchester, you can show yourself out.”

Ben’s groan of disgust must carry back downstairs because Pam retorts, “I don’t care, mister, you’re sick.” There’s a pause while Ben pleads wordlessly with his eyeballs for Dean to stay.

“Sorry, buddy,” Dean says patting Ben’s blanket covered knee. “How ‘bout I come back in a few days when you’re feeling better and we have a video game marathon?”

“Pokemon?”

Dean winces. “How about Mario Brothers?”

“That game is so _old_.”

“Humor an old man.”

A large overdramatic sigh of acquiescence is pulled out of the small boy. “‘Kay.”

Dean leaves just as Ben inserts the new game cartridge into his player and happily settles down further into bed to start playing video games. He pulls Ben’s bedroom door shut quietly behind him, satisfied that Ben is fine and just down for the count for a few days.

“Hello, Mr. Winchester.”

He spins around startled by the small voice and finds a young girl standing in front of him.

Even without all the discussion of her before, he recognizes the family resemblance in those bright blue eyes.

“Hello, Sarah.”

She smiles and it’s achingly familiar as well. It should completely freak him out, standing before a ghost. He should be more surprised, more stunned, more… something. But at this point, he can only think, _She looks like him. Like a tiny, pretty, girlish version of him_.

“My brother misses you.”

“Aren’t you a little-” _dead_ “- young to be interfering?”

Another smile but this one is slightly sad. “If I could, I would visit him,” she says, ignoring his comment.

“Why don’t you?”

She looks down the upstairs hallway toward the window in the staircase, the window that faces Collinwood. “I have tried. He will not see me.”

“Will not?” Dean questions her choice of words.

Sarah turns back to face Dean. “You haven’t read Mr. Shurley’s book.”

He can feel himself pale slightly. “How did you-?”

“You should read Mr. Shurley’s book,” she cuts him off.

“Look,” he begins, feeling a little annoyed he has to explain this at all, let alone to a dead girl, who’s barely ten at that. “It’s complicated.”

She gives him the same look that Ben did moments earlier.

Like he’s full of shit.

“Jesus, is everyone meddling in my life now?” he mutters.

“It wasn’t his fault. She lied to him, you know.”

“Ruby,” Dean whispers.

Sarah nods solemnly. “The witch.”

Dean can’t take his eyes off the small girl, the wheels of his mind spinning. He asks the questions even though he already knows the answers. “Was that a true story, Sarah? The one you told Ben?”

“You should read Mr. Shurley’s book,” she repeats.

Although he knows the answer to this question too, he feels compelled to ask it.

“Why?”

She’s gone.

***

Dean stops off at the pub and to say he’s disappointed to find out that they don’t need him and that Ash is more than happy to kick him out is an understatement. He tries to shoehorn Ash out of the kitchen, cajoling, smiling and then turning serious. He tells Ash he can go home, Dean will even pay him for the evening. He tells Ash he’ll buy him a new computer and Ash laughs and says he never bought pre-manufactured.

He threatens to cut off Ash’s mullet.

Ash chases him out of the kitchen with the mop.

He tries to get Ava on his side, asking her to go into the kitchen and spill some hot chicken stock on Ash so he’ll have to go home.

“Seriously?” she asks, her eyes disbelieving. “Go home, Dean.”

“C’mon Ava, help a guy out.”

“Dean, you already work like sixty hours a week here. You’re the one who decided that everyone needs a break from too many night shifts or we all start looking like vampires.”

He goes still at the word but Ava doesn’t notice.

“Go home, Dean,” she repeats, pushing ineffectually at his shoulders, her small frame no match for his bulk. “Go home before you annoy Ash and he decides to hack your back accounts.”

“And I’ll buy all the porn I want,” Ash hollers from the kitchen.

Ava raises her eyebrows at Dean. “He’ll do it and you’ll probably end up wanted in, like, fourteen states knowing his taste in stuff.”

“I’m a connoisseur!” Ash yells.

“You’re weird,” Ava shouts back through the closed door. She turns back to Dean. “Look, I know things have been… tough,” she begins.

“Christ, if one more person butts into my personal life…”

“You know, I couldn’t butt in if you weren’t here,” she says with a smile.

He grumbles about mutiny and treason and fired employees as she pushes him toward the door.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re all fired. Again. Didja hear that Ash, we’re fired!”

“Again?”

Ava finally has him through the door. “Now, you’re looking a little peaked lately so I already talked to Ash and he’s gonna close for the rest of the week.”

He opens his mouth to protest but she stops him.

“Don’t let the door hit you,” she calls and pushes it shut in his face.

Kicked out of his own restaurant, he grouses the entire drive home. Fine. He’ll just have another spectacular evening at home. Just him and the Steven Segal Marathon tonight. Tomorrow it’ll be Chuck Norris and if they won’t let him back in the pub by then he’ll move on to Stallone.

He parks the Impala diagonal in the driveway, just because he can and because if Sam does decide to come home it will be annoying as fuck that Dean’s taken up all the space.

Although Sam probably won’t come home. He’s too busy staying a Collinwood.

With Castiel.

He kicks his shoes off, not even wincing when they leave black marks on the wall where they hit. He grabs a beer from the fridge and flops down on the sofa, flicking on the TV. Two fucking hours until the Segal Marathon starts. Fuckers. He flips through the digital cable guide and the fact that there’s absolutely nothing on infuriates him. The best he can come up with is Iron Chef, which he used to like until that one episode with the giant eel (<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7m2wSHmmOhs>) and that was it. No more Iron Chef ever.

Something’s poking in his back and he shifts, reaching behind him to yank out the offending item.

Chuck’s manuscript, still carefully bull-clipped together, although now the first several pages are curled at one corner and folding in. He tosses it down on the floor. He should burn the fucker. Honestly. He takes a swig from his beer.

His eyes slide sideways and catch the title. _The Inamorato and the Malediction - a novella by Carver Edlund_

Huh. He wouldn’t have figured Chuck as a ‘big word’ kind of guy. But then again, he is a writer, so he probably likes to use big words.

It’s just a stupid story. Chuck’s not a prophet. Pffft. No such thing. So really, it’s ridiculous of Dean to _not_ read the manuscript. Not reading it is like decided it really is true. Avoiding it is like saying it really would have power over him.

And it wouldn’t.

It _doesn’t_.

He puts his beer down and picks up the novella, flipping through the pages. It’s not very long. Dean could probably knock it out in a couple hours and then toss it in the trash. Next time he sees Chuck he’ll tell him, _Yeah, I read your book. And? And nothing. Shrug. Nothing at all_.

He pulls the bull-clip off and flips the cover page over. All-righty. Page one.

 _It was the year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and ninety-six and Collinsport, Maine still remembered the Declaration of Independence when the country was divided into Patriots and Loyalists; those who supported the revolution and those who did not. Americans and Tories. But this is not a tale of a colony uprising against a distant master. It is not the story of political upheaval and the subsequent birth of a nation._

 _This is a story of how far two people will go in the name of love; both of them converging at the same point in horror. One driven by madness and desire and the other by grief and despair. At that time in Collinsport, while it was easy to tell a Whig from a Tory, it was not as easy to distinguish evil living among the good people of Collinsport, and that evil wore a lovely face..._


	20. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 20 - Inhumation

Chuck hasn’t had a vision in weeks, so when he finds himself on his knees in the kitchen praying that the spike of pain through his head will either stop or let him die, he’s kind of surprised.

He comes to on the ground, spilled water and a broken glass in front of his face (and Jesus he’s lucky he didn’t fall face first on to _that_ ) and he discovers that he’s lost an hour. Sam must still be in the basement with Castiel and is probably not likely to come upstairs, so Chuck leaves the glass and water on the floor, frantically tearing Castiel’s study apart for paper and a pen so he can commit this latest vision to paper before it bursts out his skull and kills him.

When he’s done, he reads over his scribbled, torn pages, ensuring he doesn’t miss anything. Then he checks the clock again, calculating against the time frame of what he’s just written.

It seemed like it was early in his vision. Early morning, maybe six or seven. It’s one in the morning right now, and assuming that his vision is for today, that leaves only five or six hours until it happens.

Once he found out his visions were real, and then later became part of them himself, he was never sure how much he was responsible for what happened. Does it happen because he’s already seen it? Can he change it? Should he change it? Would he get another vision, a different vision if he did? It’s a mind fuck for sure.

But this vision is different. He runs over the details in his mind again as he cleans up the glass and the water. He feels a sense of calm descend over him, settling his heart and his mind. He doesn’t fear the future, but instead sees it stretched out before him and he feels content.

All he has to do is make one phone call.

He dials a number he’s never used before, fingers sure and steady as he punches the buttons.

She answers the phone on the first ring. Even though it’s one in the morning, she’s been waiting for his call.

“Chuck Shirley. You’re right on time.”

“Hello, Pamela.”

***

It’s more than a little strange to have a conversation with someone who’s entombed in a sarcophagus.

Not that it’s much of a conversation, but still, Sam finds it weird.

“Castiel? It’s Sam.”

He’s started off everyone of the last eight check-ins identifying himself and it always makes him feel ridiculous. There are two people who know where Castiel is: Chuck and Sam, and he’s pretty sure Castiel knows his voice. It’s his medical training though, that kicks in and the need to identify himself to his patient is a reflex.

Even if that patient is a vampire who’s now forty-eight hours post-feeding.

Castiel had noted that he never really felt the hunger until the second day, but Sam had insisted on samples and measurements at four hour intervals starting twelve hours after Castiel last fed.

It’s the ninth check in and the start of day three.

Sam’s tired. Medical school and his internship trained him to live off of minimal sleep interspersed with coffee and food, but those days are long past. He has managed to catch a few naps in between check-ins, sleeping at either the small desk or bed that Chuck set up.

He won’t eat in the cellar, though. It seems beyond wrong to eat in front of someone he’s effectively starving. Chuck discretely comes down the old stone steps and lets him know without words when there is a meal waiting upstairs. Sam usually only makes it up the first two or three steps before he hears Chuck start in on some rambling conversation, keeping up a steady stream of chatter while he keeps Castiel company. Sam’s pretty sure that Chuck has narrated most of the Iliad and the Oddessy, Frankenstein, the Scarlet Pimpernel, one Hardy Boy Mystery, and parts of what Sam is sure is a Danielle Steele romance.

Castiel doesn’t speak unless asked direct medical questions by Sam.

His answers started off precise and efficient, almost bored. His arm remained close to the small opening that had been carved into the coffin, the butterfly IV that Sam had inserted easy to access and attach a vial to.

Sam always stuck to the same questions, in the same order, and explained the rating system, detailing the one to ten scale when required.

The first five check-ins were basic and didn’t deviate.

 _  
Castiel? It’s Sam._

 _It’s been four hours since our last check-in. How are you feeling?_

 _Do you know where you are?_

 _Do you know why you are there?_

 _I am going to take a blood sample and your blood pressure now. You’ll feel my fingers on your arm. Try not to move too much._

 _Are you hungry?_

 _On a scale of one to ten, ten being the most hungry you’ve ever been and one being satiated and not hungry at all, how would you describe your hunger?_

 _Are you in any pain?_

 _Anything you wish to add?_

 _I just want to remind you that at any time if you want to stop the test, let either myself or Chuck know. Do you wish to continue?_

 _All right._

By the sixth check-in, he started asking additional questions.

 _Are you in any pain?_

 _Where?_

 _On a scale of one to ten, ten being unbearable and/or excruciating and one being negligible at best, how would you describe your pain?_

At the next check-in, the interview became slightly longer.

 _On a scale of one to ten, ten being unbearable and/or excruciating and one being negligible at best, how would you describe your pain?_

 _That’s quite an increase from last time._

 _Would you like to stop?_

 _Anything you wish to add?_

 _No, there isn’t anyone else here._

 _Yes, I’m sure._

 _No, Dean isn’t here._

 _Castiel, your sister is dead. Do you remember at the beginning we talked about where you were and why you were there?_

 _What did you think you saw?_

 _It’s only me right now. Would you like me to get Chuck?_

 _Who was broken and bloodied? What do you see?_

Predictably, it got worse.

 _Castiel, you’ve got to stop pushing against the lid. I can… I can smell… Your hands are burning. Stop. Stop._

 _No, Dean isn’t here._

 _No, you didn’t kill him._

 _Castiel, please, listen to me. You’re in the cellar of Collinwood. Do you remember why you’re here? We’re looking for a cure._

 _I don’t know but I’ll keep looking until we find one._

 _No, Dean isn’t dead. He’s just…he’s not here._

 _Ruby is dead, Castiel. Remember?_

 _I… I don’t know anything about witches. I’m sure… She’s dead, she’s…. She died a long time ago._

 _Do you want to stop?_

Sam feels like he’s been shoring up his courage for the ninth check-in ever since silence descended after the eighth.

Chuck had come downstairs sometime around hour forty-six and sent Sam up for a bite to eat and a coffee. Sam wolfed down the sandwich and java Chuck left him, still chewing as he went back to the cellar. When he got there, Chuck was just at the part where Luke and Han try to rescue Leia, only to end up in the garbage chutes where they’re about to be pressed to their deaths. Chuck absently waved Sam away as he perched on the desktop, feet swinging slightly. Sam vaguely heard small sounds of acknowledgement coming from Castiel; soft ‘hmms’ and ‘ohs’ and it made him wonder if the silence he maintains is doing more to harm Castiel than he thought. Certainly it felt somewhat calmer when Chuck’s in the cellar, which is bizarre because Chuck himself is like a live wire sporting a hard current of electricity.

Sam had gratefully escaped back upstairs where he took refuge in the relative normalcy of the kitchen until it was time to descend to the cellar once more for the ninth check-in.

By the time Sam descends again, Chuck is wrapping up the final battle on the Deathstar, describing Han’s last minute arrival and Luke’s use of the force. Sam wonders how much gets through to Castiel in his hunger-soaked state. Chuck doesn’t falter as he speaks, his high-strung personality seems strangely suited to the task.

“… and I mean, no one really asks where the rebels got money for the medals they gave Han and Luke and seriously, like that part of the movie didn’t stick out like a sore thumb. They can’t be handing out medals every time someone does something for the Rebellion. They should be saving their money for actual weapons. Plus, Han left. He fucking left and then comes back at the eleventh hour and they give him a medal? And Luke, don’t even get me started. Whiniest kid in the galaxy although when I get around to telling you about his old man Anakin, you’ll see he comes by it honestly. Oh, hey. Sam’s back. Must be time for your checkup. I’m gonna head up stairs for a little bit but I’ll be back later.”

Chuck slides off the desk and his eyes slide over to Sam once before he makes his way quickly toward the sarcophagus. Sam watches as Chuck kneels down and puts his face very close to the opening where Sam draws blood from. Sam takes a step forward, concerned, but Chuck holds him off with a raised hand, eyes never leaving the hole they had excised from the stone. Sam can see Chuck’s lips moving and faintly here the soft sound of his whispers but he can’t make out the words. After a few more sentences, Chuck stands and steps over to Sam.

“Sorry, but I had to tell him something.”

“Uh, that’s okay,” replies Sam, not really sure he wants to know what secrets are between Chuck and Castiel.

“I’ll leave you to your work, but I’ll be back in about an hour and you can have another break then.” Chuck rubs his temples absently.

“That’s really not necessary, Chuck. I mean, I’m grateful, but you should have a break too. Why don’t you take off for a while?” Sam takes in the pinched look around Chuck’s mouth, the slightly pinkish tone to his eyes. “You look like you’ve got a headache or something.”

“Yeah, it always happens after.”

“After what?”

Chuck straightens slightly. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he repeats.

“Chuck, it’s fine. Take a break.”

“I’ll get a break. Later. I get a break later.”

Sam furrows his brow. Dean always said Chuck was twitchy but he never really appreciated how accurate that description was. “Okay,” he drawls out.

Chuck is already climbing the stairs and leaving Sam to his work in the darkened cellar. While he doesn’t have to keep the lights dimmed, he finds it works best when he can’t see every stark detail of the sarcophagus.

He takes a deep breath and steadies himself. He gathers his supplies and steps toward the coffin.

“Castiel? It’s Sam.”


	21. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 21 - Black is the Color

It doesn’t take Dean long to read Chuck’s manuscript. He grits his teeth when he reads the names _Dean_ and _Castiel_ on paper. He feels sick when he reads _Ruby_. It’s too strange, too intimate to be reading the words spread out before him. He immediately thinks of them as _other Dean, other Castiel_ ; separate and distinct.

Once he starts reading he can’t stop, although he’s not sure how much of the manuscript he actually reads, since it seems like he knows everything that will happen nanoseconds before he sees the words and his brain skims over the words in confirmation. It’s like… reading your journal from many years prior and having the memory of what you wrote flood your brain.

He hears the snap of a rope breaking and flinches as the crates fall down. He feels the certainty of death crawling over him, laying down on top of his body like a heavy winter blanket that is chilled. He feels the warm press of fingers against his own. Pain like a hot liquid poured into his body, replacing his blood. Blue eyes staring at him, bloodshot and grief-stricken.

And then he reads parts he doesn’t know. Parts he doesn’t recognize that don’t cause a strange deja vu mixed in with vertigo. Castiel at Ruby’s, Castiel making a promise, Castiel drinking blood and changing. He feels heartbroken at the sight of the text.

He wishes that if he stops reading, it will make it not true. He wants to shut his eyes and stop taking in the tiny black words on stark white paper. He wants to burn the pages as if that will somehow take it back. He reads of other Castiel bent over other Dean’s body and of Castiel’s fangs. Castiel leans over and _bites_ and Dean feels the twinge in his neck.

What he doesn’t read is how _other Dean, past Dean_ would have said yes to anything Castiel offered. He doesn’t read about how the pain had been excruciating for endless hours and he longed for death. He doesn’t read about how _other Dean_ loved Castiel so much, needed him so much that he would have agreed to become the devil himself if it meant he could stay with Castiel.

He doesn’t read those words, but he knows them to be true. He _feels_ them sink into his bones and marrow. Chuck’s words are the catalyst between his soul and his body and in the moment he reads of Ruby’s ultimate betrayal, of Castiel drinking from _other Dean_ and the broken man dying, he _becomes_ the other man. He is him, he has always been him.

The manuscript falls from his hands to the floor. Dean doesn’t move.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there in the dark, unmoving. At some point, he’s vaguely aware that the doorbell is ringing non-stop and that it’s the middle of the night. He stumbles to the door and swings it open.

Pamela stands in front of him, bathed in the moonlight, her pale skin translucent. She gives him a wry smile.

“Reincarnation’s a bitch to wrap your head around, isn’t it?”

“What?”

She bustles her way past his stupefied response, takes off her coat and her shoes and flicks on some lights as she leads him back to the couch. She sits him down, pulls his hands into her lap and eyeballs him.

“Am I gonna need to slap you?” she asks at his dumb-eyed expression.

“What?”

“Pinch you?” she says hopefully, eyebrow raised.

That seems to get him and he shakes his head a bit. “I… no. I just…”

“Found your brain getting overtaken by thirty years of memories from another life?”

He hesitates. Part of him wants to deny it, wants to pretend this isn’t happening. It can’t be happening. It’s too extraordinary, too fanciful, too crazy.

“Yeah,” he finally says. He stares at her for a moment, then at the clock on the wall. “Jesus, it’s five in the morning.”

“Yes, it is,” says Pam and her tone indicates she’s not impressed with the hour either.

“What are you doing here?”

“Apparently, time and tide wait for no man, Dean Winchester, not even you. I’m here to help you get your head around all this -” she makes a wide sweeping gesture with one hand around Dean, “- and then make sure you get to the church on time, so to speak.”

Dean shakes his head in confusion. “I don’t… I can’t… It’s all…”

Pamela makes another hand waving gesture. “Forget all of that.”

“How can I -” he makes a frustrated sound. “Jesus Christ, Pam, everything is fucked up! I mean seriously fucked up. You’ve no idea.”

Pamela makes a low ‘mmm-hmm’ sound and its patronizing tone sets Dean on edge. “Like I said, forget all that. Do you love him?”

“I don’t know what-”

“Cut the crap, Dean. I didn’t drag my ass over here at five in the morning to be spoon fed your bullshit. Do you love him?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Again with the bullshit.”

Dean clenches his jaw. “You don’t know all the details.”

“Do you mean the part where he’s a vampire? Thanks, brought up to speed. Do you love him?”

Dean stutters. “You can’t - How do you know? How is it that everyone seems to fucking know?”

“I know because I was on the receiving end of a very specific phone call from Chuck Shurley at one this morning. I always knew something was… different about Castiel, but I couldn’t tell what. My… gift couldn’t see what he didn’t want me to see. But I saw other things,” she added. “Reading my cards one night, I saw you in danger and I knew I was meant to send him to you. That was the night you found out about him, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dean breathes, anger and grief jockeying with confusion and disbelief for top billing in his emotions.

“Don’t you feel differently now that you know what happened, now that you remember?”

“I…” Dean struggles, pushing himself to his feet. “He’s a vampire!”

“Yes he is,” Pam states baldly.

“He lied to me.”

“He did.”

Dean shakes his head and runs his hand over his jaw and the back of his neck.

“Can you blame him for either, when you know he did both for you?”

Dean turns on her hotly. “I didn’t fucking ask him to.”

“No, you didn’t. But he did it for you anyway. Most people don’t get one chance at love like that, and you’ve had two. The first time it was stolen from you, but if you lose it this time, it’s because you threw it away.” Pam stands up and clasps Dean’s shoulders. “Stop thinking. Do you love him?”

“I don’t know.”

She jabs him with a finger. “Don’t be an idiot, Dean, because I will slap you. I’m going to ask you again and you better give me an answer. Do you love him?”

His whole body is tense, adrenaline and anxiety running wild through his veins. He wants to scream that he doesn’t know how he feels, that it’s all so fucked up and beyond normal life and he’s tired, so fucking tired of all this drama bullshit. His mouth opens and he just _hangs_ there for what feels like ages, wordless, soundless. His muscles ache from the tension of holding himself so rigid. His stomach burns. He feels sick and for a moment, he thinks he might puke.

“Yes.”

At that one syllable, uttered so quietly he’s sure Pam wouldn’t have heard him if she wasn’t directly in front of him, his entire body relaxes. He feels everything unclench and ease. In that space between his affirmation and his next breath, it all suddenly seems so easy. He loves Cas. Cas loves him. Everything else is just… not as important.

He’s been a fucking idiot.

“Oh, fuck, Pam. I’ve really messed up.”

She smiles and pats him on the shoulder. “I know. And now you’re gonna fix it.”

“I need… I need to go to Collinwood.” Dean starts for the door. “I gotta talk to Cas.”

Pam halts him with a touch. “Before you go, I need to tell you what’s going on over there.”

Dean eyes her warily. “Okay,” he says slowly.

Pamela takes a deep breath. “You’re brother is trying to find a cure for Castiel. He’s been running some tests.”

“I know all this, Pam.” Dean starts to pull away.

“And one of those tests,” Pam continues doggedly, “is how Castiel’s body reacts when he feeds.”

Dean doesn’t flinch at the word. He still feels the strange calmness and acceptance that overcame him earlier. Now the fact that Castiel is a vampire is simply another thing about him. His eyes are blue, he makes Dean smile, he is a vampire.

“And?” Dean prompts.

“And how he reacts when he doesn’t feed,” Pam finishes.

Dean pauses for a second uncomprehendingly. As soon as his brain puts it all together, it’s written all over his face.

“Oh, Jesus, they’re starving him.”

“Yes.”

“Is he - How is he?”

“I don’t know and Chuck didn’t say. He only said I had to tell you before you arrived at Collinwood.”

“Fuck, I have to -” Dean lurches toward the door, realizes he doesn’t have any shoes and then stumbles back into the foyer to stuff his feet in them. He can’t find his keys and starts looking around frantically for them until Pam dangles them in front of his face.

“Thank you,” he says, snatching them out of her hand. He stops and stares at her. “Thank you,” he says again, his expression deep and intense.

“You’re welcome.”

***

The ninth check-in had followed nearly the same format as the eighth. Castiel managed some semblance of coherency for short spurts, able to answer questions about his hunger, his pain level, his state of mind but then would degenerate into hallucinations leaving Sam to try and talk him out of them.

Castiel’s hallucinations center around his family, Dean, and Ruby and Sam does his best to reassure Castiel things are fine, and that nothing is really there.

Sam can’t run the blood work fast enough to know if he’s got what he needs. The tests take time and processing and he’s barely managed to complete the first samples, let alone start looking at samples from the ninth test. If he could be certain he had the data he needs, he could call a halt to the test and they could free Castiel and… feed him.

Sam eyes the small fridge in the corner of the basement. Inside it’s stocked with several bags of blood, newly procured from the blood bank. Chuck Shurley is a god among men, Sam thinks, because he _still_ doesn’t know how Chuck’s getting the blood out from under the noses of increased security at the hospital.

And he doesn’t want to know, so he doesn’t ask.

Sam hears soft footsteps on the stone stairs and looks up to see Chuck coming down. He manages a wan smile which Chuck returns.

“How did it go?” asks Chuck.

“Okay. Fine. Good,” Sam says quietly. Chuck doesn’t bother to lower his voice, and Sam wonders if the sound of them talking just registers as another hallucination to Castiel or if he recognizes them.

“You look pretty rough, man.”

Sam pushes his hair back from his face. “No, I’m fine. I’m just… I just wish we didn’t have to keep doing this, you know? I wish I knew more about the tests.”

“I thought you were processing them here.”

“I am, but it takes time and the mass spectrometer we ordered hasn’t arrived yet. I’ve been using the one at the hospital.”

“So, why don’t you take the samples to the hospital?” asks Chuck.

“It would take me hours to process all of them, and I need to be back here for the next check-in.”

Chuck nods like this is all news to him. His visions are very detailed and he was already pretty sure how he was going to get Sam out of Collinwood, but still it’s bizarre to have it all unfold in front of him so easily. “Why don’t you take the first sample, a median one, and the last one. Could you process the three of them? Then would that give you a general idea?”

Sam pauses as he thinks about it. “Yeah. Yeah it would. That’s a really great idea, Chuck.” Sam starts gathering his notes and stops. “But that leaves you here with Castiel,” he says, his voice lower than before. “Are you…?”

Chuck flaps his hands. “Oh, I’ve still got all of Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi to get through and after that, I was gonna start on the Lord of the Rings. You know, ‘one ring to rule them all,’ Chuck says in parody of a sinister voice. “So, uh, don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Chuck starts hustling Sam up the stairs of the cellar. “Yeah. Of course. Just, uh, you know, take all the time you need and, um, maybe on the way back you could pick up breakfast or something.” Chuck shrugs, his shoulders moving in an effortless display of casualness.

“Thanks, Chuck. If I get the numbers I need, then maybe we can call an end to the test and… well, it’ll just be nice when it’s over.”

“Yeah. For sure.” Chuck fidgets slightly, the only outward sign of his nervousness. “So, uh, have fun, er, I mean, good luck at the hospital and like I said, no rush.”

Sam gives him a look. “You’re sure you’re good.”

Chuck rolls his eyes. “Jesus, we’re fine.” He makes pushing motions with his hands. “See you later. Don’t come back too soon.”

Sam’s nod is somewhat skeptical, but he continues up the stairs. Chuck cranes his neck to watch after him and doesn’t move until he hears the door latch shut. He’s sprints over to the sarcophagus, crouching down and putting his face close to the opening.

“So, uh, just hang in there a little longer. Everything is going fine and it’s gonna all work out, I just know it. Just… when he gets here…” Chuck wrings his hands. “Just remember it’s really him, okay? Don’t… Just be careful. I saw most of what happened but I didn’t see all of it and you just need to be careful.” Chuck doesn’t wait for a response as he stands up and pats the top of the sarcophagus. Above him, he hears the massive front door of Collinwood open and then shut as Sam leaves the building. Chuck stares at the ceiling of the basement.

It should be any time now.

***

Dean doesn’t feel nervous on his drive over to Collinwood. He just feels a sense that things are going to be okay. It sounds cheesy and maybe a little bit hokey and if someone were telling him this story, he would laugh at their simple sentimentality.

He feels _right_.

He’s surprised when he doesn’t see Sam’s car outside of Collinwood, just Chuck’s sensible four-door sedan by itself.

He’s not sure what to expect when he knocks on the door. He’s been wondering on the car ride over what starvation means for Castiel, what he should expect.

But he’s not afraid.

Chuck answers the door and gives him a ghost of a smile.

“Hey, Dean,” he says.

“Chuck. You don’t look surprised to see me,” Dean replies. His tone is rueful and somewhat apologetic, given the way he treated Chuck the last time he saw him.

Chuck’s head bobs around in a slightly bashful manner. “Prophet,” he says, pointing at his brain.

Dean huffs in amusement. “Right. So, uh, where is he?”

Chuck steps back from the door and his gaze slides down the long hallway. “The cellar.”

“What, like you guys have him locked in there or something?”

“Or something,” Chuck murmurs.

Dean takes a deep breath as he steps into Collinwood, taking in the familiar scent. He sees it now with both sets of memories; as it was and as it is. But mostly it just feels like home.

“Where’s Sam?”

“Hospital, running tests.”

“Anything I need to know before I go down there?’

Chuck hesitates for a second. “No,” he says slowly. “I just…” he shakes his head once. “No.”

“That a ‘prophet’ no or a ‘jeez I hope this doesn’t get fucked up seven ways to Sunday’ no?”

Chuck thinks about the question. “I trust him. And I trust you,” he answers finally.

“All right then.”

Dean heads down the hallway, into the kitchen where he pauses at the sight, remembering his first night at Collinwood. He turns toward the cellar door, off to one side in the kitchen.

“Uh,” says Chuck from behind him, startling him a little. “The thing is, if it does go pear-shaped, which I don’t think it _will_ but if it _does_ …”

“I’m not scared, Chuck,” Dean cuts him off. He opens the door and closes it tight behind him, starting his descent into the cellar.

It’s still as dark as it was before, slightly damp smelling. Like all basements in Maine, it never fully warms up nor gets the chill driven out of it, not even in summer. He gets to the bottom of the stairs, sees the small desk and cot that Sam’s been using.

Then he sees the sarcophagus.

He doesn’t think, he just _goes_. He reads the inscription more subconsciously than consciously, not taking the time to digest the words. He’s a strong guy, stronger than Chuck, so it’s not as much of an effort for him to push the heavy marble lid off the top. He’s not careful, letting it fall to the floor with a solid thunk and not checking, not caring if it’s damaged or not.

He sees the silver latches on the coffin, the tiny engravings, flicks them all open and lifts the lid.

Castiel immediately latches onto Dean’s arm in a bruising grip, pulling Dean toward himself at the same time that Dean is trying to pull him out of the coffin.

“C’mon Cas, help me out here,” Dean mutters, heaving Cas upright and spilling him over the edge of the coffin. They both land on the floor in a tangle of limbs and Dean sets Cas upright, sitting with his back against the stone sarcophagus while Dean crouches over him.

Castiel’s eyes are feral, locking in on Dean’s warily, studying him, measuring him. Then Castiel is gathering himself, folding his long limbs in, pulling himself into a ball. He shuts his eyes and turns his face from Dean.

“Go away, phantom,” he whispers quietly.

Dean cups Castiel’s chin and tries to get his face centered again, tries to get Cas to look at him.

“I’m here, I’m really here,” he says.

“You always say that.”

Dean tightens his grip on Cas’ chin and the vampire’s eyes open accusingly. He regards him carefully, thoughtfully.

“Dean.”

Dean’s shoulders relax slightly. “Yeah.”

Castiel’s hands come up and grip Dean’s arms. “I’m so _hungry_.” Castiel drops his head and Dean pulls him closer. “It hurts, I forgot how much it hurts.”

Dean rests his nose in Castiel’s hair, drawing the familiar scent deep into his lungs, making his decision. He wonders if he already made it the moment he answered Pam’s question.

He shifts, settling himself down on the ground. Castiel stretches out his legs and Dean slides closer. He can feel Cas shaking, fine tremors running through his body. Castiel fists his hands in Dean’s shirt, his head resting against Dean’s sternum. Dean pulls himself in even closer, using one hand to tilt Castiel’s head up and off to the side. Until Castiel’s lips are resting against Dean’s neck.

They sit like that, both of them breathing quietly until Castiel realizes their position and tries to jerk away, pushing at Dean.

“No!” he exclaims. “I can’t.”

His vampire strength is diminished by his voluntary starvation and Castiel is currently no match for Dean, who won’t let him pull away.

“You don’t know,” Castiel argues, eyes wild and frantic. “Last time, I… I tried… I tried so hard… I killed you.”

Dean meets his gaze. “I was already dead.” Castiel turns his face away again and Dean forces it back to look at him. “You know it’s true. I was already dead.”

Dean can see the indecision in Castiel’s face. The battle between hunger and what he considers wrong.

“I’m not afraid,” Dean says lowly. He feels Castiel relax slightly and pulls him in closer again. “I want you to.”

Time hangs still, silent and thick. Dean can hear own his heart beating in his ears, steady and even. Castiel’s fingers are clenching and unclenching the fabric of Dean’s shirt. Dean coaxes him infinitesimally closer. Castiel’s lips are against the column of his neck, soft but cool.

He’s not afraid, but Dean’s restless. He’s never been good at waiting.

Castiel noses against the fine skin. Dean tenses slightly and then feels the sharp edges of Castiel’s teeth.

He expected pain, but Castiel’s fangs slide easily through tissue. Dean didn’t expect it to feel _so good_. He feels deliciously _attached_ to Castiel, moving when he moves, a strange extension of him. Castiel’s fingers release Dean’s shirt and slide around to his back and in an effortless shift, Dean goes from holding Castiel to being cradled by him. Castiel sucks on his neck and each pull shoots down Dean’s spine and pools in his groin, hot and heavy. Dean doesn’t know if it’s Castiel or if it’s him; his neck has always been a hot zone and now, having Castiel latched onto it, the pressure, the closeness, the scent of him in the air… He leans back and Castiel goes with him, climbing on top of Dean even as he drinks. Dean can hear the soft sucking sounds, hot and wet and on Castiel’s next long pull, Dean’s hips jerk up against Cas and a long, drawn out moan leaves his lips.

Dean doesn’t realize immediately when Castiel pulls away, doesn’t feel his fangs slide out of the thin skin of his neck. He does finally register that he’s no longer feeling the deep, sucking pull of Castiel drinking from him, but instead feels the soft glide of Castiel’s tongue against his skin, wet and smooth. Castiel pulls back and Dean stares up at him. His lips are stained red and slightly swollen, his eyes bluer than Dean’s ever seen them, glowing in the half-light. Dean rocks his hips against Castiel who grinds his own down in return. Castiel lowers himself on top of Dean and Dean wants to sigh in relief. The weight of him, the bulk of him, the scent of him so familiar and known. Castiel licks his way into Dean’s mouth, the taste somewhat metallic and sharp. Their tongues slide over each other, hot and wet. Dean hooks one of his legs around Castiel’s waist, his arms around Castiel’s shoulders and tries to pull him closer, claw him closer until they’re melded together. He _missed_ this, fuck he missed his. He missed Castiel’s hand cupping the back of his head, he missed Castiel thrusting his hips against Dean’s, the way his breath hitches when he kisses Dean.

Castiel starts moving downward, licking and sucking at Dean’s neck again, tongue careful and reverent at the spot where he bit. His hands are controlled and precise, his eyes clear and sharp, no longer suffering from the hunger. He rucks up Dean’s shirt, completely focused on Dean’s torso, tonguing around a nipple and Dean arches and threads his hands through Castiel’s dark hair. He’s so fucking hard it hurts. He hasn’t so much as laid one finger on himself since he left Castiel standing in the parking lot of the pub. Every time he tried, all thoughts led to Cas. And now, he’s underneath Cas, he’s breathing hard and he can feel Cas’ cock pressing against his leg and he _wants_ so badly he aches from it.

Castiel flips open the button of Dean’s waistband and Dean is more than happy to lift his hips up slightly so they can be pulled down. He feels a brief second of shock as the cold stone floor connects with his back before Castiel frees his cock and runs his nose up along the smooth skin, and then runs his stubble over the same area. Dean jerks as the sharp texture of Cas’ chin runs the length of him, a gasp escaping him when Castiel flicks his tongue out and touches it to the tip.

“Fuck,” he exclaims on a sigh. He tips his head up and sees Castiel watching him with intent, making sure that Dean is looking as he opens his mouth and takes him down in one swallow. Dean manages a sort of ‘nggh’ sound, his hips jack-knifing against Castiel’s firm grip. All he can think is _hot, wet, good_. Castiel presses his hips down and _sucks_. He can hear himself making a long drawn out keening sound, whining and panting, only able to get the first syllable of any word out and Castiel just keeps sucking, tonguing over him with his overly hot mouth and Dean feels the scrap of fangs against the sensitive skin and he can’t even warn Castiel before he’s coming and coming. Cas swallows the length of him down and Dean jerks his hips up hard and then he’s boneless on the floor gasping.

Castiel licks his way off and Dean manages to raise his head up slightly, watches as Castiel runs his tongue over the inside of Dean’s groin, the skin there just as thin as his neck. Castiel’s breath is hot as it ghosts over the area and Dean twitches his fingers in Castiel’s hair. Castiel looks up, eyes blown wide with lust and stares at Dean as he pokes his tongue out and nudges against the crease where leg meets body.

“Do it,” Dean pants. “I want… you can…” he whines trying to flex his groin up.

Castiel drops his head and Dean feels the sharp puncture of teeth sliding in. Dean’s dick, spent and soft gives a dauntless twitch and Dean wants to laugh because, Jesus, he’s not that young anymore. Castiel drinks and the pressure is searing and fantastic. Castiel is rocking his erection against Dean’s lower leg and Dean tugs at his hair again, and then jerks Cas upward and presses his lips against Castiel’s. It’s hard and messy and he should be having some kind of freak out at the number of body fluids involved but all he does is to unbuckle Cas’ pants and shove his hand inside. He grabs the solid hard length and Castiel groans into his mouth, pulling away and burying his face in Dean’s neck again. Dean pulls him hard and fast, pushed on by Cas jerking his hips and licking at Dean’s neck, scraping teeth across the skin, but not biting this time. Castiel stills for a second and then comes hot and thick over Dean’s hand. Dean keeps pumping, slower and softer now, working the slick liquid over his length.

Castiel finally stills and they pant against one another, Dean running one hand over the back of Castiel’s neck, and Castiel trailing his fingers lightly over Dean’s collarbone.

“Next time, bed for sure. This floor sucks,” Dean says finally. His voice carries out loudly in the cellar. He feels Castiel’s lips curl in a smile against his neck. Cas pushes himself up, taking his weight on his arms, and stares down at Dean.

“I didn’t think… I thought…”

“I’m sorry.”

Castiel’s eyes go liquid sorrow. “Don’t be sorry. I should have told you, I wanted to tell you but I didn’t…”

Dean pulls him down into a wet kiss to silence him. Castiel tenses for a moment and then relaxes into it, tongue swirling around with Dean’s. They kiss lazily until Dean goes to shift and remembers that they’re still on a stone floor. He pulls back.

“Let’s go upstairs.”

Castiel smiles and Dean feels the final piece of his life click into place.


	22. Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Epilogue

Life goes up, life goes down.

But things are looking pretty ‘up’ for Chuck Shurley, lately.

He’s got a paying job as Castiel Collins’ assistant and general go-to guy. He’s still doing research into Ruby’s family and the remainder of her estate, and while nothing’s turned up yet, he remains hopeful. He stops off at Collinwood three to four times a week and gives Castiel updates. Or sometimes they just chat. About life, death. The rising price of coffee.

Chuck marvels at times that his best friend is a vampire.

With Castiel’s permission and Dean’s grudging acceptance, he expanded on _The Inamorato and the Malediction_ (changing all the names and identifying details) and _sold_ it for _money_ , a fact that still makes him stop in the middle of the street and break out in a little happy dance. When Dean had vociferously objected, Castiel pointed out that it was hardly likely anyone would believe it to be a work of non-fiction and even if they did suspect Dean and Castiel it would add to their _je ne sais quois_ and most people would find it terribly intriguing.

Dean really can’t say no to Castiel when he uses French.

But Chuck makes plans to avoid Dean on the day his book is released on Amazon. Of course, they had to change the name since the publishers decided his original title was too high brow. Chuck really hopes Dean doesn’t find out what it’s called now.

Chuck’s in negotiations right now for it to be a series. And a TV show. And maybe a comic book. In a strange twist of fate, Castiel offered to be his agent, and he’s fantastic at it. He doesn’t even have to use his vampire mojo. He stares with his calm blue eyes and people fall all over themselves to make him happy.

Chuck’s got a girlfriend.

He waits patiently in his car, thumbs tapping out the tune on the radio, and when Becky Collins comes around the corner with her bright smile and gigantic purse, he feels his face spread in a matching grin. She looks perpetually cute in her candy-striping uniform and she slides into the passenger seat with care, gently setting her large purse on her lap.

“Any trouble?” he asks.

She rolls her expressive eyes. “Please. They only notice me to bend over backward to be nice. My family’s behind a quarter of the hospital’s funding.” She cracks open her purse to show off the bags from the blood bank. “And they think I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Chuck says warmly, reaching over to squeeze her knee.

“Of course I’m not,” she replies. “But it’s convenient if they think I am. It’s still so _exciting_. Ever since that day you found my fanpage and Skyped me and told me about Castiel and his ‘little vampire problem,’” she makes finger quotes around the words, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I knew I had to help him. A vampire, all alone in the world, pining for his one lost true love.” She clutches her hand over her heart. “I could still cry about it to this day.” She fans her eyes quickly with her hand, flapping madly at her face. “And now, they’ve been re-united, and your book is going to be published - oh, did you get my re-writes on the sex scenes, because, while your stuff is technically correct, it did lack some oomph, so I wrote up some notes and I left them on your computer.” She completes her sentence by mouthing the words _Smoking Hot_.

“Um, yeah, about that? Uh, you know you can’t ever tell Dean about that, right? I mean, Dean or Cas but especially Dean,” he says nervously.

“Please, he should be so lucky to get that kind of hotness just dropped in his lap. What I know about gay porn…”

“Danger topic!” Chuck panics, covering his hands with his ears and it’s a good thing the car is still in park. “We agreed, we _do not discuss_ that part of the book. We can talk about anything else in the book and you can leave the notes about the… uh, well, naughty bits, but we can’t _ever_ talk about it.”

“Aw, you’re so cute when you blush!” she coos and leans over to kiss him on the cheek.

He can’t help the stupid grin that spans his face and he leans into the kiss.

Yep, life is pretty good if you’re Chuck Shurley.

***

Dean winces as his foot hits the cold tile of the balcony. He steps outside, pulling his robe on. It’s the coldest part of the night, the part right before the dawn, when the air and ground have had all evening to surrender their warmth.

Collinwood has central heating now, but they haven’t had to use it much yet. With the reconstruction adding in insulation and piping, the estate keeps it’s heat pretty well, but not for much longer.

Winter is coming.

Cas stands on the edge of the balcony, eyes focused on the sliver of horizon that is turning slightly pinkish-orange with the first hint of sunrise. He’s barefoot as well, his long dressing robe almost touching the tops of his feet. He must hear Dean, but he doesn’t turn around.

“It’s cold out here,” Dean states, coming up behind Cas and pressing his chest to the other man’s back as he wraps his arms around him. He rests his nose on the back of Castiel’s neck where the skin is cool and dry.

“Yes.”

“Be sunrise soon.”

“Yes,” Cas replies. “A few more minutes.”

“You’re just as good as the weather channel.”

“Hmmm.”

Dean gives him a little squeeze. “You leave our big, warm bed to come out here and freeze in the dark? A guy’s gonna get a complex, Cas.”

“I was restless. And I enjoy the way the night smells.”

Dean takes in a deep breath and can smell the salty Maine air, that indefinable scent that comes with night; somewhat spicy but not overwhelming. Mixed in is the familiar scent of Cas; safe and grounding.

“And you’re brooding,” Dean adds.

A slight pause. “Perhaps. A little.”

Quietly in the distance, Dean can hear the waves breaking against the shore. It’s fainter now than it was in the 1800s, and if he asked he’s sure some college kid would be able to explain it away by erosion or global warming or something else he’s never heard of.

Sometimes, it still takes Dean by surprise: his extraordinary timeline stretching out into the past and combining with the present. He tried to explain it to Sam, how the memories are all there, but he doesn’t know, doesn’t _remember_ until he stumbles across it. Like the other day when Cas laughed. Cas tossed his head back, his neck exposed and Dean was hit with the memory of their first meeting in 1795, Dean telling a filthy, dirty joke that he had no business repeating out in public and the two of them laughing over it. Or trying to remember where put his keys and trying to trace his steps throughout the day, only to realize he’s picturing himself in his house from the 19th century.

But here, on the balcony of Cas’ bedroom, it’s unimportant and even inconsequential to him. Just another piece of who he is. Who they are.

“Sam will find a cure,” he says finally, knowing what Cas is brooding over.

Cas sighs quietly. “Perhaps.”

Dean tightens his arms again. “He will. Listen, the guy’s no slouch in the brain department,” Dean adds, trying for levity.

“I’m sure he will do his best.”

“He said your numbers from the… abstinence were informative.”

It sounds lame when he says it like that. Dean frowns, glad that Cas can’t see his face.

“I do not doubt that his abilities, simply that there may not be a cure to be found.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s been difficult at times for him to reconcile his memories of the past with the present. He doesn’t know what it’s like for Cas. He knows that it was several years after his… death that Castiel had himself entombed. He’s not sure how many. Castiel is reluctant to talk about anything after Dean’s death and after seeing the look on Cas’ face the few times Dean asked, Dean decided not to bring it up again.

He knows Cas thinks about Dean dying a lot. More than he should. It’s in the way Dean catches him staring at times; focused and intent, but sad. Or at night, he’ll wake up and find himself clutched tightly to Castiel, as if Cas is afraid he’ll lose Dean while they sleep.

How do you comfort someone about the inevitability of death?

He knows Castiel won’t turn him, won’t subject him to what he considers horrific and abhorrent, which leaves them with the sole solution of finding a cure. While Sam’s working on the medical angle, Chuck and Castiel are pursuing the occult and some of the books and other items Chuck has procured. Castiel spends hours pouring over satanic books and artifacts, Christian mythology and ancient scripts in foreign or dead languages.

Surely, Dean thinks, there must be a cure, somewhere.

They just have to find it.

But it won’t be tonight, while they are standing outside on a cold Maine morning. Dean tugs at Castiel.

“Come on,” he says against Castiel’s neck. “Let’s go back to bed. I’ll even let you start a fire for me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Castiel’s lips curl upward. “How generous of you.”

“I’m all heart.”

Once back inside, Castiel starts to head for the small fireplace when Dean stops him with a sharp tug on his hand, pulling him close for a kiss. It’s quick and fierce, Dean’s hand on the back of Castiel’s neck tightly, Castiel surprised and grabbing Dean’s shoulders for balance.

“Was that additional bribery? For my, what did you call them, ‘boy scout’ skills?” Castiel asks.

“Naw, just felt like it,” Dean says with a grin. He leans forward again and licks his way into Castiel’s mouth. Castiel pushes him away with humor.

“Get into bed before you catch more of a chill.”

“You know, studies have shown that the best way to warm up is to get into bed with someone else. Naked.”

“Modern science at its best, I take it.”

“It’s my duty to help you catch up on these things. Scientific stuff,” Dean teases as he pulls Castiel toward the large bed.

“Mmmhmmm,” replies Castiel, letting himself be led. “I speak six languages, studied cartography, mathematics and philosophy. I’ve also learned to navigate the internet, deciphered the stock market, and Charles tells me I ‘have the hang’ of the espresso machine he purchased. I’m hardly a Philistine.”

Dean rolls his eyes, forgetting for a brief moment that Castiel can see him just fine in the dark. “Yes, your brain is huge and impressive. So why aren’t we naked yet?”

Castiel gives him a light push that sends Dean sprawling backward on the bed. Dean makes quick work out of shucking his robe and getting under the covers, hissing slightly at the cold sheets.

“If you’d stayed in bed, it would still be warm,” Castiel chides fondly, disrobing gracefully and climbing in under the covers.

“If you’d stop wandering off to brood, I wouldn’t have to leave.” He pulls Cas over on top of him.

“Is this going to be your solution every time I do? Coax me to bed?”

“Jesus, I’ll never get any work done,” Dean laments.

Castiel barks in laughter and Dean thinks _There it is again; the full laugh. Head back slightly, eyes crinkled, nose scrunched. How could I ever have forgotten?_

It’s Dean’s favorite thing.

“I could make you my kept man,” Castiel suggests, eyebrows raised.

“Keep me in beer and pretzels, with action movies on the TV all day?”

One of Castiel’s legs slides between his own, and he shifts slightly to accommodate it. “Perhaps,” Castiel replies, leaning down to suck at Dean’s collarbone. It’s an entirely different sensation from when he drank from Dean; focused and intent. This is playful and haphazard.

Dean tilts his head to one side to give him better access. “I’d get fat.” He sighs as Cas moves down toward his chest. “And lazy, really lazy.”

Castiel suddenly stills, his head turning slightly toward the balcony doors, eyes shuttered and alert.

“Sunrise?” Dean asks carefully.

“Sunrise.”  



End file.
